


Fire Whiskey

by darlingsdarling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fred is dead the war is over and no one knows how to cope with any of it, Hurt/Comfort, POV Ginny Weasley, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Canon, Post-War, Teddy Lupin - Freeform, Too Much Banter, oops turns out being a child soldier is not good or fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28414140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsdarling/pseuds/darlingsdarling
Summary: She brought the warm mug up to her lips in an effort to stop herself from screaming. Blanched faces, blank expressions, and silent- so goddamn silent, they floated about the familiar house like ghosts. They were walking on eggshells, sharing nothing but knowing glances in the daylight hours and muffled sobs in the twilight.--------The war is over. Voldemort is dead. The Burrow is a shell of what it once was.The fallout following the war as seen through the eyes of Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley.Fuck JK Rowling
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 37
Kudos: 75





	1. i. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio escape the silence of The Burrow. Ron and Hermione have a conversation that's long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fully aware this should actually be called "Firewhisky," but it doesn't sound nearly as dramatic as "Fire Whiskey"
> 
> Where's the drama? 
> 
> The angst?

There was something strange about the Burrow in the weeks that followed the war.

There had been an unspoken agreement that once the dust settled, once everyone was bandaged and accounted for, they would climb through the rubble and head back to the Burrow.

They had to grieve and heal and do whatever the hell it is that war heroes do when the fighting is done, and the world is saved. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what that was yet.

The living room was silent- it had been for three weeks now, as she settled onto the couch next to Ginny. She cradled her mug between her hands, soaking in its warmth, as she folded her legs under herself, nearly perching like an owl. Percy sat across from them, his eyes trained forward, focused on nothing in particular. A mug of his own sat on the coffee table beside him, but Hermione suspected it contained something more potent than tea.

Arthur sat next to him, paper in hand. He had been pretending to look over the crossword for thirty minutes now.

An old radio in the kitchen softly played some old jazz song she could quite make out.

_Tick, tick, tick. _The clock ticked incessantly, reminding each and every one of them just how slowly time was passing.__

She brought the warm mug up to her lips in an effort to stop herself from screaming. Blanched faces, blank expressions, and silent- so goddamn silent, they floated about the familiar house like ghosts. They were walking on eggshells, sharing nothing but knowing glances in the daylight hours and muffled sobs in the twilight.

It was agony.

Percy drank from his mug, winced, then returned to his usual dissociation, his hand pressed to his lips and his eyes hardly blinking.

Ginny picked at the edge of the couch. She’d found a loose thread to unravel.

Arthur still had not begun his crossword.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Nearly in unison, the group turned their heads towards Harry as he padded down the creaking staircase. His wand was clutched tightly in his right hand. He gave an awkward nod as he crossed through the living room towards the screen door.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, nearly startling herself. She’d hardly registered Harry was in the room when the words burst from her mouth.

Harry shrugged. “Dunno, a walk?”

“Can I come?” She wasn’t looking for an answer. She had to get out.

The sun hung high. It couldn’t have been later than noon. Not that it mattered, a blanket of clouds clung to the sky, blocking out most of the light. For a moment, she thought that maybe, just maybe, the sun was grieving with them. Maybe, it too, felt that every important part of itself had been snuffed out in that courtyard.

She used to love that courtyard. The perfectly crafted arches, the cobblestones, if you stood in just the right place, you could see Hagrids Hut.

What would they do with all the rubble that stood in its place?

“I couldn’t handle it, the silence.” Hermione crossed the sides of her cardigan tight across her chest as she was hit with a gust of cool wind. “It’s driving me mad.”

Harry continued towards the Weasleys garage that sat just beyond the house. “You sure you weren’t mad already?”

She scoffed, “Rude!”

For a moment, she spotted a lopsided grin on Harry’s face before it vanished.

His hair had gotten particularly long in their stay at the Burrow. It was long enough to cover his scar almost entirely if the wind blew it in just the right direction. He hadn’t asked her to cut it yet; perhaps that was by design.

Harry disappeared into the darkness of the old garage and reappeared just a moment later with a cloth rucksack in hand. She heard some sort of clanging inside.

He continued on.

“Where are we going?”

Harry shouldered the bag. “I’m not sure but, I can only pace back and forth in Ron’s room for so long.”

A wave of relief washed over Hermione. She wasn’t the only one going mad cooped up in that house. It was confounding how a home could feel so empty despite all its people.

“Have you spoken to George?” She asked. “I’ve tried, but he’s hardly ever out of his room. I don’t think I’ve seen him at breakfast since…” _She hadn’t spoken to George since the funeral. _Even then, he hadn’t spoken back.__

He shook his head. “I think his door’s locked.”

“Locked? Someone needs to talk to him. This isolation game we’re all playing can’t be good for anyone, especially George.”

He didn’t respond, but she could see him mulling something over in his head like he was trying to fit imaginary puzzle pieces into place.

They approached a patch of willows, their knotted roots intertwined just below the soft earth. Their vines, swaying casually, seemed to part on their own as the pair passed through them.

Harry sat with his back against the trunk of one of the trees. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, crossing his beaten up sneakers.

He reached into the canvas rucksack and produced a glass bottle. Its red seal was already broken. The insignia of a dragon was etched into the bottle filled with shimmering amber liquid. A quarter of it was already gone.

_**Fire Whiskey.** _

He twisted off the cap and pressed the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He shook his head as he took his first swig. He extended his arm up toward her, offering her the bottle.

“It’s still morning,” She scolded as he waved the bottle in front of her invitingly. With a huff, she snatched it from him.

Alright, they were day drinking now.

After taking a swig, she passed the bottle back. She threw her head back as the whiskey burned down her throat. With closed eyes, she let out a long, controlled breath.

“Ya know,” Harry began, “You can’t blame them for bottling it all up. I don’t know what to do with myself, and I didn’t lose a son or a brother or my twin.”

She was naive to think their baggage would have stayed on the grounds of Hogwarts with all the blood and ruins. She brought her knees up to her chin. “I thought we’d be happy by now,” Hermione laughed at herself. “I don’t know why but I thought that once he was gone and the war was over, we’d get to be happy.”

It was as if they were still on the hunt for Horcruxes. They were still marching through empty fields, setting up camp, watching one another get poisoned by that locket as they sat in stoic silence.

“Do you think we’re ever going to get away from it?” Hermione asked. “The war?”

Another drink. “Sirius and Lupin never did. I don’t think Dumbledore got away from it even after he died.”

She reached out for the whiskey once again.

\------------

Her eyes strained, trying to focus on the red-headed figure that was lazily approaching their makeshift hiding spot. It was a Weasley- obviously, but it was hard to tell which one from such a distance. Surely no one was looking for them yet; they’d only been gone for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.

Oh, it was Ron.

_Ron._

“You’re getting hammered without me?” Purple circles hung under his eyes. His hair was a mess sticking up at odd angles. Hermione shifted, making room for him beside her. Despite being just a floor above her, she hadn’t seen him in a few days.

“Here,” She said, passing him the bottle. “In all fairness, Harry didn’t really ask me to come. I just followed him.”

“Is that any different from usual?”

She rolled her eyes, suppressing a grin. Ron and Harry were making jokes again. Sure, they were at her expense, but, in all honesty, she didn’t mind.

Hermione studied the Fire Whiskey formula during Fourth year when Ginny snuck a few bottles into the common room after Harry’s first task. The label claimed it was infused with the essence of dragon’s breath. The breath of a Chinese Fireball specifically. In reality, it was nothing more than muggle whiskey and a sparkling enchantment.

She decided they probably didn't care.

She turned to Ron after a few moments had passed. He was barely a foot away from her. “How are you?” She asked. She’d been meaning to ask for a while, but it felt almost superfluous. She knew the answer.

“Fine, I guess,”

“But how are you actually feeling! I mean, are you angry, are you depressed, are you conflicted, are you-”

“I’m fine ‘Mione.” Ron huffed. “I’ve screamed, and I’ve cried, and I’ve punched a hole in my wall and now,” He threw his hands in the air gesturing at nothing in particular. “Now, I’m fine. Fine as I can be, I guess.”

Emotional range of a teaspoon.

Harry cleared his throat, “When did you punch a hole in the wall? Wait, which wall?”

“You were taking a shower. I punched straight through to Bills room. He said if the walls weren’t so thin, he’d be impressed with me.”

“Impressive,” Harry nodded. “All that Quidditch practice was good for something.”

“You think I could go pro?”

“Semi-pro,” He said, washing his chuckles down with whiskey. Disheveled and casual, he really did look like James Potter or the pictures Hermione had seen of James Potter at least. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, still held together with clear tape. He was drumming against his leg with his wand.

Part of Hermione felt like they were still first years. They were recovering from the madness that was Harry’s little adventure with the Sorcerer’s Stone. In the moment, it seemed so important, so big.

If only their problems were as big as they were back then.

Fighting a troll in the women’s lavatory didn’t sound too bad these days. She could probably do it now with just two spells and a visit with Hagrid. Perhaps Charlie knew of a sanctuary out in Romania.

If she had stumbled upon Professor Quirrell now instead of six years ago, she would have figured him out in a matter of days. He wouldn’t have lasted more than a week within the walls of Hogwarts.

Ron waved his hand in front of her face. “Do I have something on my face?” He asked quizzically.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

She blinked twice, bringing herself to her senses. “Sorry, lost in thought.” She hadn’t noticed Harry and Ron’s conversation fade from her consciousness. She didn’t mean to stare but, staring at Ron Weasley certainly wasn’t bad.

She missed him.

Her fingers barely brushed against his as he passed her the bottle. She set it down without drinking from it. She placed her hand on top of his, waiting for him to pull away.

They hadn’t spoken about where they stood now. They kissed in the Chamber of Secrets a few weeks ago, but they were in the middle of a battle. Emotions were running high. He probably wasn’t thinking straight when he grabbed her by the waist and pressed his lips against hers.

He didn’t pull away. His blue eyes remained trained on her, soft and kind as ever.

“Right then,” Harry said, startling them both. “I’ll leave you two to... I don’t know.”

A blush crept across Hermione’s face. “Harry, you don’t have to go. We just got here.”

“Nope,” He said with surprising certainty. “I’m sure there’s something for me to snag off the kitchen counter. I can get drunk from my bedroom just as easily as I can from the woods.”

“Bloody hell, that was embarrassing,” Ron said quietly as Harry disappeared from view.

“I know!” She giggled into her palm. “I feel guilty running him off. I’m the one that followed him out here.”

He shrugged. “I think he’ll survive.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, pondering what she was going to say next. With so much to talk about, where should she even start? “We need to talk,” That sounded scary. “We kissed in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“I recall, I was there.”

Hermione swatted at his arm. “We haven’t talked about it. About what it meant if it meant anything at all.”

“I certainly thought it meant something,” He said. She looked at him expectantly. “I really wanted to kiss you, so I did.”

Absolutely no help at all.

“I’m serious,” There was so much she had to say. She had been enamored with this boy for the past four years. She had been to hell and back with him. She had seen him at his worst, and he had done the same.

In a world full of magic where impossibilities were commonplace, and nothing ever went according to plan, Ronald Weasley was a familiar constant. He was always there, kind and witty and reliable. Despite his penchant for the dramatic, he was a source of calm, of stillness.

“Are we friends, or are we something more?”

His grin subsided. “I… I don’t know. I’m not really myself right now.”

**_Oh._ **

She felt her expression drop as she processed what he said. It was as if he’d just dropped a bucket of ice water on her.

“Right, right! It’s absurd to put the pressure of that decision on you right now, with everything that’s just happened.” She swallowed her disappointment. “I supposed I’m not quite myself either.”

“Hermione, I’m not saying I don’t have feelings for you. I’m just saying that I don’t know what-”

She took a deep breath before interrupting him. “No, no, no. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you today.”

“‘Mione,”

“I’m being selfish.” She stood up, brushing the dirt from her jeans. “The whiskey has gotten to me, and I’m being selfish. I should go back inside.”

He was already on his feet. “You know I’m rubbish at this. I’m not like you. I’m not good with feelings, putting it all into words.”

“I know,” She was fighting back tears. Was she really going to cry over this? She fought the Dark Lord, but this was where her tear ducts drew the line? “I should have known.”

In the seven years she’d known him, Ron had never been good at expressing his emotions. Why did she think he would excel at it now as the world was collapsing in on them?

She turned her attention to the clouds overhead to avoid making eye contact with him. The sky was greying, and the previous haze was looking more menacing. She wouldn’t be surprised if thunder started rolling in soon. It hadn’t rained in a while.

She didn’t look at him as he interlaced his fingers with her own. His fingers were rough and calloused.


	2. ii. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys sit down for dinner. Bill makes an announcement. Ginny makes an exit.

They were practically sardines, all eleven of them packed into the kitchen for dinner. 

Fleur and Bill sat at the kitchen counter, their plates precariously balanced on top of scattered papers and potholders. Ginny’s mother sat at the head of the table, as usual. Percy, Ron, and Her Father sat in the seats closest to Molly. For no discernible reason, George decided to take his meal on the bottom step, one leg firmly planted on the banister. No one bothered to chastise him. 

Hermione had quietly taken the seat typically reserved for Charlie next to Harry and Ginny, earning a handful of raised eyebrows and wide-eyed glances between siblings. Her face was pinned into a scowl. Ron made a point to seem incredibly engaged with the roasted chicken on his plate despite not taking a single bite.

Ginny made a note to ask Hermione what was going on when they got back upstairs. Ron Weasley didn’t lose his appetite easily.

Dinner was a cacophony of static jazz, silverware against ceramic, and torrential rain. It was coming down in thunderous diagonal sheets against the dusty window panes, nearly shaking the Burrows foundation. The sky had turned from grey to jet black in a matter of moments. 

Bill set his glass down with a _clink_. Nine sets of eyes turned towards him. “Fleur and I have something to tell you.” 

“Knocked her up already, Dear Bill? Quick work.” George asked a fork pressed to his lips. 

Molly shot him a disapproving glare. “Hush,” 

“Why else would he be making an announcement?” 

“No, Fleur is not pregnant... I don’t think. We’re heading back home-” Bill stopped himself. Their mother hated it when he called his cottage with Fleur “Home.” _The Burrow was home._ “We’re heading back to the cottage in a few days now that the threat of Death Eaters has subsided and everyone is settled back in.” He leaned towards his wife, “You’re not pregnant, right darling?” 

Fleur nearly spat into her wine glass. ‘No,’ She mouthed. 

Ginny watched her mother’s knuckles whiten. Dinner was tense beforehand, but it seemed as if Bill had sucked all the air out of the room. 

It was inevitable. They all had to leave eventually. 

Percy had his flat up in London, Charlie was getting owls about heading back to Romania nearly every day, Ron and Harry had received letters from Kingsley Shacklebolt about their future as Aurors.

Eventually, Ginny would have to go back to school. 

Did they really expect her to go back to class as if nothing happened? To put on her robes like they weren’t military fatigues. They expected her to go back to class as if her brother wasn’t killed in the very hallway she walked to get to potions? There wasn’t enough scrubbing in the world that could erase the scarlet that stained every inch of those grounds. They might as well hold class next to the fresh soil of Fred’s grave. 

It was nothing short of a slap to the face. 

_Come back to school! Remember to focus on your studies and forget about your dead classmates! As always, your textbooks will be available at Flourish and Blotts._

“You’re leaving already?” Molly asked, breaking the silence. Her silverware was sent clattering onto her plate. 

“We can always floo back!” Fleur reassured her. She tucked a strand of platinum hair behind her ear. “You’re welcome over anytime.” 

Arthur wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap. “You’re sure it’s safe? There are murmurings of Death Eaters reorganizing in York and Bristol.”

“And those are both hours from Tinworth.” 

Arthur folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t like the idea of the two of you caught in a fight by yourselves in the middle of nowhere. The Ministry is still hunting down runaways.” 

“Every Death Eater of note was shipped off to Azkaban or killed in the Battle. Stan Shunpike’s thirst for vengeance isn’t going to hold up against two members of the Order of the Phoenix and a protective ward.” Ginny said. Stan Shunpike was a Death Eater, right? She was mostly sure Harry had mentioned him before. 

“You’re still coming over for dinner every Saturday,” Molly said with finality. 

Fleur perked up in her seat, “Of course!”

She sighed, “I don’t like it, but I suppose it was bound to happen.” 

“And just like that,” George announced from the stairs, “Everyone began moving on with their lives. What’s a dead brother after three weeks?” 

“George Weasley!” Molly’s face turned bright red. 

He laughed. “What? All it took was three weeks for you all to decide it was time to move on.” 

“You think any of us are moving on?” Charlie asked

Ginny’s hands clenched into fists, broken nails carving into her palms. “You’re not the only one mourning.” 

Percy didn’t seem to be processing the conversation at all. 

“I’m not the only one mourning? Well, that is news to me.” Ginny was going to deck him in the face. He was already down an ear. What harm was a broken nose on top of that?

Ron stood from the table, his hands slamming against the mahogany wood. “What the hell is your problem?” 

Arthur rose next, “All of you get it together.” He boomed over the downpour, “You’re acting like children.” 

“Am I really?” 

Yep, She was going to punch him. He was a selfish, arrogant dickhead, and he needed to get knocked down a peg. Ginny launched herself from her seat, but she didn’t get three paces before Harry was up as well, an arm wrapped around her torso to keep her from moving. “Ginny,” He said softly. “He doesn’t mean what he’s saying.” 

Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. She could feel her breath hitch in her throat. “Move,” She said shakily. “I am going up those stairs, and you do not want to be in my way. Move.” 

George’s smug expression turned to confusion as he tentatively made his way off the staircase. Ginny could feel Harry just paces behind her as she walked across the now silent dining room. “If you ever try that shit again,” She began, not bringing herself to finish the statement. 

Her message was clear. _‘Try that shit again, and she would not be so kind.’_

She sprinted up all thirty-eight stairs, Harry not far behind her. 

She nearly collapsed as she crossed the threshold into her room. Her narrowing vision almost was gone. “I’ll kill him,” 

Harry pulled the door closed, careful not to catch it on the rug. “Don’t say that.” 

Ginny was about to explode. Steam was going to burst from her ears like she was some unattended kettle left boiling on the eye. 

“I’m going to kill him,” 

“I’m sure you could.” He sat gingerly on the foot of her bed, motioning for her to sit down as well. “Grief is different for everyone,” 

The uproar had begun once more downstairs, each of her brothers fighting to be heard over one another. Fleur was calling for her husband to _‘Just sit back down!’_. She was pretty sure her mother was crying now too. 

She sat down with a huff, her hands still fists. “Everyone is grieving. He is being a prick.” 

Harry fidgeted with the unraveling seam of his shirt.“Do you want to talk about it? I could go talk to him. ” He offered. 

There he went, Harry Potter, the savior of the Wizarding World, trying to save the day once more. Be it Voldemort or George Weasley, he would take care of it.“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” She deflected. 

_No, she did not want to talk about it, thank you very much._ She wanted to hop on a broom, play quidditch for hours until she couldn’t feel her aching muscles and windburned face, collapse onto the green lawn. Not that she was able to, the quidditch pitch had been one of the first things Crabbe and Goyle set aflame. 

They were supposed to rebuild it before class resumed in September. 

The thought of flying around that pitch sent shivers down her spine.

Beside her, Harry opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself.

She’d compared his eyes to a toad when she was younger, but now that she was right beside him again, almost brushing her arm against his, Ginny realized Harry’s eyes were more like emeralds. Cut gems that caught the dingy light of her bedroom in just the right way and reflected it back to her brighter than before. She could hardly see his scar under that mop of hair on his forehead. 

The noise below had waned after someone sent the screen door banging against its frame. 

“It’ll get better,” Harry said quietly, his head leaning against a Holyhead Harpies poster, “It always feels like you’ll never get through it, and then you do.

Not even eighteen, and he was already an expert in grief, passing out advice like he was some war weathered sage.

He was just a kid. 

They were all just kids. 

It felt silly- it felt _childish_ to ask, “When?” When she would finally be able to get her head above water, finally get the breath back in her lungs that Fred and Tonks and Lupin and _everyone else who died in that godforsaken war_ stole from her when they hit the ground?

When would the Weasleys catch up to the rest of the world that insisted on carrying on like nothing ever happened? 

Harry placed his hand on her knee, rubbing small circles against the fabric of her pants with his thumb. Normally, she would have interpreted his gesture as an attempt at flirtation, he was never any good at it, but in the moment, it felt far different. It wasn’t romantic at all. It was the comfort of a fellow soldier who had never asked to have any of this thrust upon him. 

Somehow, the pad of his thumb carried the enormous weight of his self-imposed guilt. 

He exhaled. “I’m not sure. It heals so slowly that you don’t really ever realize anything has changed. You just look up one day and realize you’ve been healed or fine or whatever for a while.” 

“When did you get wise?”

“When you needed me to,” 

_Typical._

She leaned her head against his shoulder, waiting for him to object. The rise and fall of his breath pushed against her skull, his hand moved from her knee to her shoulder, pulling her close like he was scared she would slip through his fingers. 

The tears fell easily. He was warm, he was familiar, and he was here, safe beside her. He wasn’t roaming through the woods, he wasn’t dead in the forbidden forest, he was here, in her bed, alive. 

She hadn’t realized just how much of her mind had been dedicated to wondering if Harry was still alive until she was holding him.

“I was serious earlier. I’ll go talk to him if you want me to.” 

The laughter racked through her throat like a sob. “Harry Potter, one day we’re going to tackle that savior complex of yours. Just wait until it’s your turn in the psychiatrist’s chair.”

He kissed the top of her head. 

He hadn’t done that in a while. 

“We’re going to give one therapist that job?” 

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll get a whole team. They’ll need to rotate daily.” 

He gasped in feigned offense, “I’m going to therapy every day?” 

“I actually recommend you go twice a day.” 

She was going to bottle up this moment, this calm, and keep it next to a pensive. Relive it over and over again until it was all she thought about. Relish in the hour of stillness she had in the metronomic beat of Harry’s heart. 

Her moment in the eye of the storm was interrupted with a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” Ginny called, wiping away tears with her palm. Harry pulled away as if they needed a chaperone. 

Bill inched the door open like he was bracing himself for some wild beast to pop out from behind it, but Ginny wasn’t snarling, not anymore. 

Slowly, he smiled. “Hey,” He greeted. “I was worried you were going to follow Ron’s lead and start punching holes in walls.” 

“Not yet,” 

“Well, when you do, don’t let Mum find out. She’ll blow a fuse, and we’ll never hear the end of it.” He said. “You’re okay?” 

Ginny nodded. _Okay was a word they had come to use generously._

Bill fell back onto Hermione’s bed that lay on the other side of the room. She had been stuck with the old mattress the Weasleys only ever pulled out of the attic for guests. Mattress might be a bit too kind; it was closer to plywood. Ron made a big deal out of offering to trade, but she insisted on not being an inconvenience. Yet another complex they needed to tackle. 

Bill shifted uncomfortably and propped his feet up on Hermione’s chest that sat nearby. “Good, I figured Potter would sort it out. He’s good at that kind of thing.” He winked. Harry turned pink at his compliment. 

“You shouldn’t listen to George and all the rubbish he’s spewing.” She said. “You and Fleur should go home and find some normalcy. You guys deserve it.” 

“When have I listened to any of my little brothers? He can say all he wants, but on Friday, Fleur and I are going back home.” He twisted the golden band on his ring finger. “It’s not his fault. George isn’t like you lot, he’s not as strong as you are.” 

Harry straightened his spine, “George is plenty strong, he fought-” 

“We’re all strong. Charlie fights dragons, George gets up every morning, Percy hasn’t thrown himself off a ledge. But Hermione and Ron and the two of you, you were in the middle of all this since the very beginning. George and I were around for the First Wizarding War, but we weren’t leading it the way you did. We were kids.” Bill sighed, rubbing his chin. “You can’t hold him to what he says. He doesn’t know how to grin and bear it because he never had to.” 

She could feel something growing inside her once again, clawing up her throat, threatening to burst through her mouth in some thrashing flurry of crimson anger. How quickly that pensive memory vanished. She almost laughed, thinking of what her mother would say about her temper. 

Ginny clenched her jaw. “You’re acting like we didn’t lose the **_same brother_ **in the **_same war_ **.” 

“You need to give him time,” 

She clamped her eyes shut. George got time, and she got what, shipped off to school? Forced to give her brothers allowances for the rest of her life? 

She pressed a hand to her throat. She wouldn’t let herself fly into a rage. Her fingertips grasped at her neck. “How long are you going to give him?” 

“Losing Fred, that’s not something he’s just going to get over.” He said as if she didn’t know. As if she didn’t look for her brother during every meal only to find an empty chair. She didn’t want George to simply ‘get over it.’ None of them would ever be over this. She wanted him to act his fucking age. 

Her grasp tightened. “I’m not talking about this anymore. You can go. I’m sure someone else in the house needs the faux-paternal advice you’re handing out, but I’m fine without it.” She gestured between Harry, who was staring at her throat, dumbfounded, and herself. “We’re fine up here.” 

“You know what Mum would say about your temper.” 

The parental concern on his face was almost funny. One day, Bill Weasley would finally realize the eleven years he had on her didn't matter anymore. He wasn't her father. “George may be saying things he doesn’t mean but I am serious,” The rasp in her voice grew into a growl. Her pulse quickening under her clutch. _“_ I swear to Merlin, I will hex you. _”_

His lips formed a line, “Fine.” He looked to Harry. “Don’t let her do anything crazy.” 

_“Get. Out.”_


	3. iii. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione weather a storm and wonder about scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fully aware this should actually be called "Firewhisky," but it doesn't sound nearly as dramatic as "Fire Whiskey". Where's the drama? The angst?
> 
> Your gal had to take some creative liberties. Apologies.

No matter what she did, Hermione couldn’t shake the mud from the soles of her shoes. “Come back inside.” She called over the storm, trudging through overgrown weeds and a long-abandoned flower garden. “You’re going to catch a cold.” 

Ron stood alone. He’d wandered so far she hadn’t been able to see him from the Burrow’s picture windows. His face tipped up towards the falling rain. His clothes were sopping wet, his red hair matted to his head. He seemed to breathe in time with the storm clouds. 

His eyes didn’t open. “Did Mum send you?” He asked as she reached earshot. 

“I sent myself.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You’re going to get sick.” 

She flinched as a bolt of lightning hit a nearby tree just outside the Weasley’s yard. The smell of electricity and charred wood filled the wet air. Anything not covered by fog was _assaultingly_ green. Vibrant leaves desperately clung to their branches despite the gale. Knee-high grass bristled with life. Under different circumstances, she might have thought it was beautiful. 

Finally, she took her final step beside him. “If you’re waiting for George to apologize, he’s already locked himself away in his room.” 

He held cupped hands out in front of himself, letting them fill with water. “I’m not waiting for anyone,” He threw the water at his already drenched face. 

“Then what are you doing?” 

“Standing.” 

_Incredibly helpful._

Her pink sweater stuck awkwardly to the back of her neck. “Should I be worried about you?” 

“I thought you were mad at me. Why the sudden concern?”

“Unlike you, I can multitask.” She shoved a hand in her pocket, “And I’m not mad. Not at you, at least.” 

Ron was a wavering smudge of orange against the scene just beyond him. She worried that at any moment, the wind and rain would put him out like he was nothing more than the dying flame of a candle. He had never looked quite this small before.

If she reached out and pushed him, he might topple over. 

She took a deep breath letting the humid air hit her lungs. “Should I be worried?” She asked again. 

Ron’s eyes searched the horizon. There was nothing but grey in front of them. The storm was building. Professor Trelawney has mentioned storm clouds being an omen for something, but Hermione had only ever half-listened to her dazed lectures. 

What she would give to know what they meant now. 

“Ron,” 

“What do you want me to say? You’re asking questions you already know the answers to.” 

“Then talk to me about what I don’t already know.” She cringed at the desperation in her voice. She sounded meek. “Talk to me,” 

He dropped his shoulders. Deep swirling scars peeked out from under his shirt. From his shoulder, they wove their way down to his wrist ending in the palm of his calloused hand. Had any of them known that the Battle at the Ministry was only the beginning? That those scars would not be the last? 

Hermione reached instinctively covered her own scar with her sleeve. 

**_Mudblood_ ** _._

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at it since Bellatrix had carved the word into her arm even as she screamed, begging for it to end. For the witch to just kill her and get it over with. She was convinced they were all going to die that day in Malfoy Manor amongst all the opulence. The crystal chandeliers and grand staircases. 

Looking at the shape they were in now, perhaps they had died. 

Perhaps they would have been better off if they had. 

She tried to shake the thought from her mind, but much like the mud that clung to her shoes, she couldn’t. She wasn’t quite strong enough. 

“Kingsley offered me a job,” Ron said. “Junior Auror.” 

_Oh_. Hermione swallowed. “Are you going to take it?” 

Ron released a sound close to a laugh. “I haven’t cast a spell since we got back. I’m not even sure I know where my wand is.” 

Hermione couldn’t recall the last time she had cast a spell either. The Malfoys still had her wand wherever they were hiding, and she refused to use Bellatrix’s wand any more than she had to. She doubted that wand had any _good_ left in it. 

“We can find your wand.” 

“We spent seven bloody years chasing down bad guys, and the Ministry never cared. They tried to stop us. If they had listened to any of us when we warned them about Voldemort, they could have stopped all this.” His voice wavered. She couldn’t tell what was tears and what was rain. “Don’t you think that if they had helped us, Fred could still be alive? I know that Harry had to be the one to end it. But if Voldemort hadn’t had all his troops, how much could he have done, really?” 

He finally turned to face her, no longer talking out of his peripheral. “After all this, they want me to _work_ for them?” 

Hermione bit down on her tongue. That was exactly how she felt when she undid the wax seal on the letter that had arrived at the Burrow just days after the battle. Apparently, The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was in desperate need of a “mind as bright as hers.” 

Kingsley was trying his best. He was the new Ministry, the just Ministry. He really was trying his best, but the idea of revitalizing the Ministry, the idea of making amends. It was farcical. Perhaps the Department of Magical Law Enforcement should have done its job instead of forcing her to spend her education doing it for them. 

She had to stop herself from writing back and informing the Department of Law Enforcement that they could very kindly kiss her ass. 

He shook his head. “What should I do?” 

“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” 

“But you’re smarter than me.” He said. “Merlin knows you’re a better person than me. What would you do?” 

She looked around for a moment, thinking. This truly was a conversation they could be having somewhere warm and dry, but if he would talk standing out here in the rain, she would too. “None of that is true, Ron. **_You’re smart_** , and **_you’re good._** " How many times did she have to remind him of that? "But if I were you, I would do more than work for the people that have been rooting against you.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“I’m not sure,” She said. “Honestly, I’m not sure of anything anymore.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch of your age?” 

“I know. What have I become?” 

“Hermione Granger: war hero, living legend, the _second cleverest _witch to ever grace Hogwarts.”__

Second cleverest, she could live with that.


	4. iv. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny wakes up early. Charlie thinks he's funny. Percy thinks he'd be better off at home.

The sun was rising earlier and earlier each day. Ginny was convinced it was some cruel trick being played on her by the universe with the sole intention of ripping her from the comfortable nothingness of sleep. 

Muted rays of sunlight shone through the open shades of her bedroom, casting spotlights on posters and family photos. Hermione was still asleep in her sorry excuse for a mattress, a hand-knit blanket slung over her limbs that hung lazily over her bed frame. 

Ginny hadn’t asked questions when she stumbled back inside the night before, sopping wet and flustered. After clocking the finger-shaped bruises on Ginny’s neck, Hermione didn’t ask any questions either. 

They both understood that some things were too complicated, too personal to explain. She was sure that in a few years, they would talk about everything that had happened these past few weeks. Eventually, when the wounds weren’t as fresh, they would talk about it. They would write all about it in history books and memoirs and tell-all interviews, but now, they had to live through it. 

That was the worst part. 

Ginny made her way down the creaking stairs, careful to avoid the loudest steps by the second and third landings. She and Ron had learned early in their childhoods which steps would get them caught when they stayed up past their bedtimes.

The kitchen was still empty, the kettle was cold, no one had touched the old radio on the counter. 

She must have been the first one up. 

She hoisted herself onto the kitchen counter, leaning her head against a cupboard. Her feet dangled above the ground. Her eyes danced around the room floating from a pile of chocolate frogs, a growing stack of muggle and wizarding newspapers- the Daily Prophet had taken to printing quite a few retractions, a Tiffany Blue care package sent by the Delacour’s. 

“You’re up early,” Charlie didn’t make any effort to avoid the loudest steps as he made his way down the staircase. He rubbed sleep and black liner from his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

She half-shrugged. “Hermione snores,” 

“So does Percy. I swear he’s cast some amplifying spell or something. I can hear him through the walls.” 

“The hell is wrong with your neck?” He asked as he made his way through the kitchen. 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Bill wouldn’t shut up,” 

“Bill did that?” He asked, his voice rising louder. 

Ginny pressed a finger to her lips, her eyes wide. There were nine other people in the house sound asleep. “No,  _ I did. _ ” She said. “It was either this or… well, I don’t know what I would have done otherwise, but it wouldn’t have been good.” 

“Candlewick temper,” 

“Is that something you want to ignite right now?” 

Charlie jabbed her with his elbow. “You know I’m joking.” He pulled open one of the cupboards near her head. “I say you should have slapped him straight across the face. Maybe turn him into an owl? You can make him send your letters.” 

Ginny chuckled. “I nearly did, but I’m not sending many letters these days.”

“What’s he up to? He and George were both on a self-righteous warpath last night after you stormed upstairs. You’d think it was a competition.” 

“They’ve made it a competition.”

Charlie pulled a package from the cupboard, read the ingredients, then immediately put it back, his nose scrunched in disgust. “Well, I’d appreciate it if they could parse out who’s winning. I’m over this little charade. Quite boring.” He examined another box. “Is there no food in this house that’s actually  _ edible _ ?”

Ginny scanned the room once again. “Andromeda dropped off some weird casserole type thing. It should be in the ice chest.” 

“Andromeda Tonks?” He asked. “The woman lost her husband, her daughter, and nearly her sanity. She does not need to be dropping food at our house.” 

Ginny fiddled with a button on her shirt. “She’s latched onto Harry. He may as well be her grandchild too, considering how much she writes him. She’s supposed to bring Teddy by soon.” After last night, Ginny wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. 

Charlie pulled the foil off the dish and pulled his brow into a furrow. “Are these sweet potato and celery Canary Creams?” 

“Like you said, she’s nearly lost her sanity. Cut the poor lady some slack.” 

He pulled his wand from his pocket, bringing the kettle on the eye to life. “I suppose someone has to get groceries because I am not eating that. This house would fall into chaos without me.” 

Charlie always had a light in his eyes even when the world was caving in on him; the rubble seemed to bounce off of his shoulder. There was still fight in those wiry limbs of his.

Maybe fighting dragons every day put things into perspective. 

“Take me with you,” 

Charlie tossed the casserole dish into the bin, careful to hide it under a pile of letters Hermione had trashed without opening. “You know how Dad would feel about you leaving the house right now.” 

She shot him a look. 

“Fine,” He said. “But only because you’re my favorite little sister.” 

“You wouldn’t take your other little sisters with you?” 

“Oh, absolutely not!” He smiled. “Don’t tell them, but I can hardly stand any of my other sisters. All of them are far too distant for my liking. It’s like they’re not even here.” 

Ginny reached out and pushed his arm. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.” 

“Do you want to go shopping or not?” 

“I’m not making any apologies.” 

He poured the now boiling water into a cup. “Go wake up, Percy. I’m not going to let him waste away up there forever.” 

“Can I bring Harry?” 

“Go get your boyfriend, I don’t care.” 

“Harry broke up with me a year ago.” 

She’d never seen someone roll their eyes so dramatically. “Ginerva Molly Weasley, do you want to go with me or not?” 

\-----------------------

The shops of Diagon Alley were doing their best to pretend nothing had ever happened. Their windows were filled with sweets, dancing neon figurines, posters advertising an upcoming Weird Sisters concert. 

They weren’t doing a very good job. Storekeepers hadn’t figured out how to repair the crumbling brick. Menace clung to buildings like a thick film, even now. 

The four of them walked through the busy cobblestone alleyways, heads tucked under hoods. Harry had slid Ginny his glasses after the third time he was stopped by a stranger. The poor baldheaded man was blubbering so loudly none of them could piece together what he was saying. 

She suddenly understood why he was growing his hair out. For a boy that prided himself upon being invisible, he was getting quite a few stares. 

Percy was pouting like a child, muttering to himself with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Lighten up, bud,” Charlie scolded his little brother. 

“I’m fine,  _ bud _ .” 

“Ohhh, Dear Percy has gotten sassy in his time off from the Ministry,” Charlie said. 

Percy jammed his elbow into his brother’s side, eliciting a yelp. 

Charlie nudged him back, nearly knocking him over. 

Ginny put a hand between the two of them. “Please don’t start a wrestling match in front of Ollivander’s. I don’t know how to mend dislocated shoulders.” 

Percy brushed off his robes, jutting his chin in the air. Silently, he led them to a run-down store at the end of the walkway. Pots of herbs and lavender hung from the shop’s frosted windows alongside a row of unlit lanterns. The cursive wood burned sign above the door read: Parthenia’s Produce. 

A bell mounted atop the door jingled melodically as they entered. 

Behind the counter, an elderly blonde woman stopped in her tracks as Harry wiped his shoes on the doormat, her jaw dropped to the floor.  _ ‘Harry Potter,’  _ she mouthed to herself as if she was being met with a poltergeist. 

“Darling,” She said, her gruff voice cutting through the store like a knife, forcing each of them to look to her. “Take whatever you want free of charge, obviously.” 

Harry attempted to hide his scar under his unruly mop of hair once again. “That’s really not necessary.” 

“It’s the least I can do for the boy who lived!” 

Ginny watched Harry retract into himself as the old woman uttered that phrase.

He busied himself in the  _ ‘Splendid Seasonings’ _ isle that was labeled with yet another atrocious wood carved sign. “I can pay,” He said shortly. 

Ginny looped her arm through Harry’s, pulling him close. “I shouldn’t have brought you along. I didn’t think about all the attention you’d get.” Momentarily, she had forgotten Harry Potter was the savior of the Wizarding World twice over. 

It was really his fault for acting so normal about it. What sort of savior would regularly fall asleep on her couch with his hand stuck in a bowl of popcorn? 

“It’s fine. It had to happen eventually, didn’t it?” 

“It’s his rugged good looks. People can’t take their eyes off him.” Charlie announced. “Look at the boy, can you blame them?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt. 

Harry sputtered, turning as red as the apple in Charlie’s hand. “I, uh-” 

“I mean talk about biceps,” He continued. “Someone stop me from making a scene and swooning into the grapefruits here and now.” 

Ginny shook her head, leaning in close to his ear. “Don’t let it go to your head, Potter.” 

“Uh, I got rosemary. What else is on that list?” He rubbed the back of his head, desperate to shift the subject of the conversation to anything but himself. His eyes threatened to bug out of his head and fall to the cluttered floor below. The tips of his ears were bright red. 

He could handle Voldemort just fine but he was practically melting under Charlie's admiration. 

“Will the three of you just get what you need so we can leave?” The basket on Percy’s arm was already half-full. 

“Do you have somewhere better to be?” Charlie asked. 

He straightened his tie, “Actually, I do.” 

“Do tell! What adventures are you getting up to in your bedroom, surrounded by liquor bottles?” 

Percy’s expression dropped into a scowl. “This is not the place for you to project your issues onto me. Just get on with it, please.” 

Outside the large windows, a sudden shock of blue light illuminated the alleyway. A thunderous echo rang through the cobblestone street. 


	5. v. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives three things in the post: a letter, a package, and yet another enigma

Ginny was already gone when Hermione was startled awake by a flurry of flapping wings. A silver-eyed barn owl tapped viciously at her window, a letter clutched in its beak and brown parcel tied to its leg. 

“Alright, I’m coming.” She called at the wailing bird as it continued to ram itself against the window. The poor creature was determined to get her attention. The rusty latch groaned as she pried it open. The calling owl bit at her wrist, screeching for her to take the mail. “Just calm down.” She pleaded.

The square package she undid from its clawed foot was lighter than she expected. 

The owl snapped at her once more, nearly drawing blood, before flying away as loudly as it appeared. Dipping and bobbing against the blue sky, it disappeared.

She examined the letter and parcel in her hands. There was no sign of who sent them. She ran her thumb under the golden wax breaking its seal. The tidy handwriting inside stood at attention in perfectly aligned rows. 

**_Miss Granger,_ **

**_Sorry for the rude delivery but it seemed that my other letters weren’t reaching you. Fair enough. However, I am not writing this letter on behalf of the Ministry nor the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (although I hear they have no plan to stop their campaign to recruit you). Today, I write on behalf of The Order._ **

**_Even as Minister, I am not infallible. While I am confident in my judgment and character, I must always be aware of the poisons that brought my predecessors to ruin. I cannot in good faith hold this office and continue to act as the head of the Order of the Phoenix._ **

**_I cannot in good faith disband The Order of the Phoenix._ **

**_The Order is in need of confident, level-headed leadership. The Order needs someone familiar with techniques used by those who aim to bring the Wizarding World to its knees. Someone who has seen combat._ **

**_There are very few people in this world with your expertise and responsibility and even fewer that I trust to upkeep this organization._ **

**_I would like to pass The Order down to you._ **

**_I understand this is a large undertaking, I do not offer it lightly._ **

**_I await your response._ **

**_\- Kingsley Shacklebolt_ **

Hermione stared at the parchment in her hands, dumbfounded as her mind raced to form a single coherent thought. Her eyes scoured the note, again and again, making sure she hadn’t misread anything. He must have sent this to the wrong person. 

Obviously, he sent this to the wrong person. 

She exhaled through her nose, pushing down the million half-formed questions that were springing to life in her head, each of them fighting to be answered first. She reached for the package, nearly fumbling it out the open window with her shaking hands. Whatever he had sent was going to clear up this mess. 

_Pass down The Order to her?_

She tore through the brown wrapping paper revealing a hinged and polished wooden box. Inside, sitting on top of a cushion of blue velvet, was a circular golden pin. The head of a Phoenix barely peeking out of a pile of embers. Its glowing eyes tracked her expression.

Her index finger circled the cold metal. She half expected it to turn to smoke and disappear under her touch. 

Hermione grabbed the letter once more. It really was addressed to her. Kingsley Shaklebolt, The Minister of Magic, had actually sent her this letter. 

She was barely eighteen. Technically, she hadn’t even finished all her schooling, and yet he was offering her The Order of the Phoenix like it was a set of hand me down robes he couldn’t find a place for in his closet. 

What use was The Order now anyway? The insignificant portion of herself that wasn’t overrun with shock felt the tiniest bit insulted. Why had he given her a resistance faction _after_ their uprising succeeded? Was there any point in keeping it around? 

Unless there was a ninth Horcrux out there, the war was over. Voldemort was dead, she was sure of that. Every second she remained alive was proof he was gone. 

Every breath her muggleborn lungs dared to take was an act of rebellion against him—an exhausting rebellion but a rebellion nonetheless. 

Her fingers brushed against an inscription on the back of the pin. She turned it on its head to examine the swirling black script. 

_Ex favilla nos resurgemus_

She was rusty from her time away from school. Just a few years ago, she was turning back time to take extra classes, but now she could hardly make sense of the Latin in front of her. 

_We rise again from the ashes._

If anyone around her was rising from any ashes, they hadn’t made it obvious yet. All she could see was the deceptive glow of ember that refused to be stamped out. Just cinder and smoke. 

A thud pulled her from her thoughts. “‘Mione, breakfast.” She heard Ron say through the door. 

“Right, one second!” She called. 

She crammed the folded letter back into its envelope and carefully placed the pin back in its case. The Phoenix head attempted to nip at her finger as she closed the lid. She stuffed the mail under her pillow for safekeeping. 

Pulling open the bedroom door, she was careful to avoid her disheveled reflection in Ginny’s mirror. She already knew she looked as gaunt and worn as the familiar face that stared back at her through the door frame.

He was still in his pajamas, blue plaid pants worn and fraying in the waistband, mismatched grey socks that were more hole than fabric, and a navy shirt she was almost certain belonged to Harry. It was a little too tight in the arms. 

Ron leaned his head into the room. “Ginny’s gone too?” 

“Too?” 

“Charlie took Percy and Harry with him to Diagon Alley. Apparently, whatever he’s eating in Romania is infinitely better than what we’ve got here. He’s gone all posh.” 

Immediately, her mind flashed to the worst-case scenario. There were still Death Eaters roaming London. Yes, the most egregious of them were taken care of, but anyone can cast a forbidden curse. 

It would only take one spell.

“Hey,” Ron said, reading the fear on her face. “I’m sure he can handle himself for an hour. Besides, do you think Ginny would let anyone lay a finger on him?” 

She stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her. “I know, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. We’ve kept him alive all these years. I don’t want him dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

Ron nodded. That had been the very foundation of their friendship, after all. Keep each other alive to see the next school year. Make sure the others made it to adulthood. 

Against all odds, they had done it. Although, she hadn’t known it would be such a difficult undertaking. 

Hermione shook her head. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She didn’t have a wand; half of her was convinced that she’d forgotten all the magic she’d ever learned. There was no use worrying when there was nothing she could do to help. 

She attempted to push it to the fringes of her mind alongside every other unpleasant thought she’d batted away from her consciousnesses in the past month. How were her parents faring in Australia, and how would she get them back? How many more letters would the Ministry send before she finally caved in and joined them? Why had Kingsley chosen her? Now, she could add Harry’s well-being to the ever-growing laundry list in her head.

The anxious knots in her stomach remained. 

Ron cleared his throat and tossed his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Should we go then? Because I’m -” 

“Starving,” She began. Ron Weasley was a thousand different things rolled into one exemplary being. He was also incredibly predictable. “I know. Let’s go.”

Her attention stayed on him as they made their way down the rickety stairs. Maybe, Kingsley should have sent the letter to him instead.

Sure, Hermione was responsible, but Ron was brave enough to take on the weight of The Order. Dauntless enough to try, at least. She could picture him now, pouring over papers and giving out orders with that firey spark in his eyes. That boy wore Griffyndor courage like a tailored suit.

She grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Can I talk to you later? After breakfast?” 

Confusion flashed across his expression. “You can talk to me now. Are we not talking right now?” 

“No, talk in private.” 

The wooden banister creaked precariously under his weight as he leaned against it. “Is something wrong?” His voice was soft and low, careful not to alert anyone that may have been eavesdropping just a flight below. “Look, ‘Mione, if something is wrong, you should just tell me. I know I’ve been weird lately, but you can tell me. _You can tell me anything_.” Concern painted itself across his freckled face. 

She suppressed a smile, her lips forming a straight line. No one else ever used that nickname. It sounded like an awkward jumble of vowels coming from anyone else’s mouth, but from him, it was second nature. She quite liked how it sounded coming from his lips.“Nothing’s wrong,” Well, _nothing new_ was wrong. 

“You’re sure?” 

Hermione extended her pinky finger, “I promise,” 

He raised his eyebrows at her before giving in, intertwining his finger with hers. 

Feeling his touch sent her tumbling back to the night the three of them spent in Grimmauld Place. As usual, Harry and Ron were far too stoic or their own good. They stared like she had three heads when she tried to set up her makeshift bed on the hardwood floor. She took the couch beside them.

It didn’t take much convincing on her end. 

She still remembered the way it felt as Ron wordlessly took her hand. Her heart hammering so viciously in her chest she feared the boys would be able to hear it considering the apartment’s silence. Hitched breathing and the occasional thud of the settling building were the only perceptible noise outside of the blood rushing through her ears. 

His grasp on her hand still remained as she fell asleep. It was a reassuring reminder that he was alive. That was the last thing she remembered before drifting off that night. All she recalled was thanking God or fate or maybe the stars for keeping him alive right beside her. 

Even now, she found herself looking up and thanking whatever lay in the sky above. She’d never been religious. She wasn’t sure if it was prayer or self-reflection or just gratitude

By morning, one of them had let go. 

Obviously, she hadn’t had any choice in the matter. 

“Go,” Hermione waved Ron down the staircase. “If I’m hungry, I’m sure you’re famished.” She lied, removing her pinky. In all honesty, the entire Harry situation had left a sour taste in her mouth that ruined any semblance of an appetite she may have had. 

A shame, truly, considering Molly Weasley was the one cooking. 

Although, considering the way she was gripping the serving spoon in her right hand like a weapon, perhaps it was best if she couldn’t bring herself to eat much.


	6. vi. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny needs to be healed. It seems Percy does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of blood/injury. Nothing too gratuitous, but if that bothers you, reading the last few paragraphs will give you enough context to read on.

The noise reverberated through the street, sending splintering window glass into the shop. Ginny could feel the soundwaves rend through her chest in violent tides. It all happened so suddenly she hardly had time to shield her arms in front of her face. Her palms and forearms ran slick with blood. She threw herself behind a crate of produce. 

Another bang rattled through the street, accompanied by yet another shock of light. This time, burnt orange illuminated the sky with wildfire intensity. The smell of smoke filled the air. 

Outside was brick fracturing against brick. Shattering terracotta and glass rang out like windchimes. 

The old woman in the back of the store was screaming bloody murder in a nearly operatic octave. 

“The hell was that?” Charlie yelled over the clamorous uproar. He must have ducked too; Ginny couldn’t spot him anywhere. 

She fought with her boot, struggling to free her wand. The blood on her hands made it impossible to grip anything. “Is anyone else hurt?” She asked. 

Harry and her brothers spoke nearly in unison. “You’re hurt?” 

She held out her arms. Jagged hunks of glass had torn through her skin, leaving behind gashes and debris. Small pools of scarlet had already begun to form on the floor underneath her. 

All three of them scrambled towards her, careful to keep below the shelves of food that were now acting as their last line of defense against whatever madness was devolving outside.

Charlie grabbed at her stinging arm, sending a wave of shock up to her shoulder. He prodded at a particularly bad gash, “That looks bad,” 

“Oh really?” She shot at him. “Does it really?”

“I’m trying to be helpful!” 

She winced as he moved her arm again to examine it. “Well, it’s a bit obvious.”

“Where are my glasses?” Harry asked. “With cuts that deep, you need someone to cast Vulnera Sanentur.” Despite his rushed tone, he didn’t look concerned. He looked harder, sharper. Like every aspect of him had been exaggerated and distorted. 

He was wearing a mask of his usual face. Unnervingly cool and calm. 

When did he get so good at doing that?

Ginny patted her sides. “They’re right-” Her pockets were empty. His glasses must have fallen somewhere when she launched herself to the ground. “I think I’ve lost them,” 

He cursed under his breath, running his hand under the shelves. 

Ginny suddenly wished she had asked for the shopkeeper’s name. Maybe if she had, she’d be able to yell at the old woman to  _ please shut up _ . 

“For the love of God, someone go make sure she’s not been impaled or something,” Ginny said through clamped teeth. She was biting down so hard, she wouldn’t be surprised if her teeth shattered in her head. 

Percy pulled himself to his feet.

“No, you stay here! I need you to fix me.” 

He froze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Charlie was still clutching her arm. “For once in my life, I’m going to agree with Percy. That sounds like a bad idea.” 

“If I could do it myself, I would,  **_obviously_ ** . Harry doesn’t have his glasses, and I’m not trusting Charlie to do anything that requires precision.” She glanced apologetically at her brother. He was great at fighting dragons, not attention to detail. 

To be fair, most people were bad at both. 

Charlie narrowed his eyes at her. She could feel the unease radiating off of him. Begrudgingly, he left to tend to the shopkeeper. He was much more personable anyway. 

“Are you alright, miss?” She immediately quieted down as Charlie approached. “Do you need any help?”

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief as the yelling stopped. Still, she could hardly hear Percy’s quivering voice. His previous pomposity had completely dissolved, leaving behind a slighter, paler version of himself. “I- I can’t. You know what happened the last time I tried to…”

“I don’t care about last time! When are you going to get it through that _brilliant_ head of yours that it’s not your fault.” The words ripped through her mouth harsher than expected. She couldn’t bring herself to say the rest of it. _Fred’s death was not his fault._ “Now, quickly, before I bleed out here and now next to the tomatoes. Fix me.” 

Perhaps, “Bleeding out” was a bit hyperbolic. Still, she needed him to pick up the pace. 

She needed him to pull himself out of this self-pity and liquor fueled bender and act like her brother again. 

Charlie stuck his head above the counter in the back. “Gin, just let me do it.” 

“He graduated top of his class. He can do it.”

Harry was still searching for his glasses behind her, but Ginny could feel his eyes boring holes into her. 

Percy pulled his wand from a pocket in his robes. He shook his entire body like he could somehow shake the nerves out onto the floor and simply sweep them away and toss them out. 

For a moment, he stared at her. 

He didn’t look like the boy she grew up with anymore. In all honesty, he hadn’t for a while. His shock of curly red hair had been tamed, his crooked teeth were fixed years ago. He refused to wear initialed jumpers or thrifted robes. He was a sensible, rational, boring member of society that she hardly recognized, but she had seen this look,  _ this exact look _ , on his face before. 

That was the same terrified look he gave her when eight-year-old Ron had fallen off of a broom and broken his ankle in the backyard. It had only been ten years, but she could have sworn it was a lifetime ago. 

Percy had pulled out every trick in the book, desperate not to let their mother know he had broken their brother in a Quidditch match. Ginny had been tasked with the important role of shoving ice chips in his mouth to keep him quiet. She was very good at her job, but Ron was too frail and dramatic to keep the whole thing under wraps. 

He exhaled once more, moving closer. He raised his wand, shaking, “I can’t.” Percy faltered. There was an obstacle between the two of them now that wasn’t there ten years ago. Some invisible pane was keeping her from getting through to him. “I won’t.” 

“Percy,” 

“I can’t.”

She didn’t know where the insistence was coming from. It was a lost cause. Just like every brother before him and every brother after him, Percy Weasley was nothing if not reliably stubborn. Solidly unshakeable once his mind was made up. 

If he would just make up his mind to trust himself again. 

Charlie pushed their brother out of the way. “Have both of you gone mad?” 

“ _ Vulnera Sanentur _ ,” A ray of muted green light emitted from Charlie’s wand, wrapping itself around her arms. The impressive blood flow stopped in its tracks. “ _ Vulnera Sanentur _ ,” The light grew stronger, more powerful as she watched the blood begin to evaporate from her skin. Warmth crawled up her veins, beginning in the tips of her fingers, spreading to her spine, her legs, the top of her head. “ _ Vulnera Sanentur _ ,” The pulsating currents of light were almost blinding now as his voice grew in intensity. 

Ginny had heard that the third incantation was supposed to  _ ‘knit’ _ wounds. She didn’t think people meant it so literally. Her cells wove themselves together like a bundle of yarn she might find in her mother’s belongings.

The spell sputtered out as the last of her wounds closed. The puffy new skin was pink and raw under her fingertips. 

Charlie looked to Percy as he shoved his wand back into his robes. His jaw was clenched, something close to umbrage floated behind his eyes. “You were just going to let her sit there bleeding?” 

Percy’s unblinking eyes remained trained on the floor.

“Unbelievable,” 

“You took care of it, didn’t you?”

Charlie brushed a piece of glass from his sleeve. “I shouldn’t have had to,” 

They both avoided each other’s gaze as Harry jumped to his feet, slightly fractured glasses shoved onto the bridge of his nose. “You guys apparate back. I’ll be there soon.” He said breathlessly. His eyes flashed between the Weasley’s in front of him and the door.

Ginny scoffed. He was not leaving her behind again. “Absolutely not. You’re not going alone.” 

His next words didn’t carry much weight. “It could be dangerous.” 

It seemed that everyone was in the habit of stating the obvious. Going out could be dangerous. Staying cooped up at home could be dangerous.  _ All of it was dangerous. _ At least investigating would be interesting.

“That’s why we’re coming with you.”


	7. vii. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry charges headfirst. The Weasleys find humor in Diagon Alley.

“I’m sorry,” Percy asked. “We?” 

“If you two go back and we don’t, Mum will know something’s wrong.” Ginny’s stomach dropped. Their Mother didn’t need anything else to worry about. Recently, she’d become an Olympian when it came to shouldering stress. She shouldn’t have to carry any more than she already was. “We don’t need that, and neither does she.” 

Percy clamped his eyes shut, running his hands across his face. “Fine,” He groaned, heaving with his entire chest. “Only because I don’t want to worry, Mum. I’m not saving any worlds today.” 

Ginny could still feel fumes of- well, she wasn’t quite sure what Charlie was feeling, but she could feel waves of whatever it was radiating off him with nauseating potency. 

“None of you have to come with me. I can handle this.” Harry said, although there wasn’t much conviction in his voice. He knew his warning was falling on deaf ears. 

“That’s not happening, Potter,” Charlie said, fists clenched. He shot a look at Percy. “Can we go? Are you done with your temper tantrum?”

“Not quite, I’m afraid.” 

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I don’t know what I was expecting, honestly.” 

“Is that supposed to be any different than usual?” Percy sneered.

“Rich coming from a Headboy that can’t cast a spell. Are your academics treating you well now?” 

Percy’s face went red. The angry flush crept from the tips of his ears down to his neck. 

Ginny had seen them bicker countless times before. Charlie’s predisposition to banter and Percy’s instinctual habit of snapping at anything that didn’t take him seriously was a familiar and deadly combination. They fought constantly, it may as well be their default, but this was different. 

This wasn’t rivalry. The insults they were lobbing at each other were far closer to contempt. 

Maybe she should’ve sent them back home.

“Shall we go, or am I casting Silencio first?” 

The downtrodden cobblestone street was mercifully empty as they made their way outside towards the plume of smoke just beyond the roofline. As far as she could tell, the explosions had stopped, but the sky was still tinged with orange. The smell of ash and blood lingered in her nostrils. 

The clamor and outrage were still going strong, but it wasn’t nearly as close. It was muffled now, less likely to knock her off her feet again.

Ginny pulled her stiff sleeves over the recovering wounds on her arms. They stung in the fresh air. 

Harry was leading the way a few paces ahead. His head swiveled at the slightest noise like some guard dog on high alert with its hackles raised. The muscles in his back were tensed, shoulders pulled up to his ears. His face didn’t portray the anxiety he held in the rest of his body. 

He was still wearing that poised, undisturbed facade. It fit so perfectly on his face that if Ginny didn’t know him, she would have had no clue something was wrong.

A horrifying thought flashed through her mind as they passed an ice cream shop with its bubblegum pink shutters bolted shut. The scorching on its front door looked far too similar to a dark mark for her liking. 

“How’s your scar?” She asked. 

“What?” 

She had to jog to close the gap between them. Harry was always running ahead of her. Always pressing on like a moment of rest would be the death of him. Considering what she knew about the past seventeen years of his life, she couldn’t blame him for thinking that way. “Does your scar hurt? What are we dealing with?” 

He rubbed at the lightning bolt above his brow. “No. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s not him. I can tell it’s not him.”

The good news didn’t seem to bring him any comfort. What did he know that she didn’t? 

“If it’s not Voldemort, then who is it?” Their lives had been consumed by him for so long it was strange to think they had to worry about anyone else. Who else could compare? 

Who else would try? 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

They trudged on. Ginny had to speed walk to keep up with Harry’s gait. 

Unease enveloped her suddenly, stomach-churningly, and out of nowhere. Something was looming over the four of them. She could feel it. She just couldn’t spot it yet. 

The hair on the back of her neck stood on edge. Goosebumps covered her skin. 

Something was wrong.

 _That was stupid_. 

Obviously, something was wrong. Her brother had just acted as a street medic in the middle of a destroyed produce shop. Something was always wrong, but there was something less obvious lurking. 

She nearly wretched as it hit her.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sat right in front of them, stripped of all its technicolor wonder. The windows were still boarded up with plywood—the exterior paint peeling in long strips. On the roof, the two giant wooden figures still remained. Animated expressions, bright purple suits, monocles made from black crystal.

One of them was sitting upright. Its enchanted eyes were still blinking every few seconds. All things considered, it seemed fine. Beaten up but fine.

The other was a different story.

Hanging on by a thread, the other figure was doubled over and impossibly contorted. Its eyes were unenchanted, unblinking. Something had split its head nearly in half. She could tell it was Fred; he had insisted they paint freckles on his dummy in the name of realism. 

Ginny stopped in her tracks. 

“Dear God,” She heard Percy say behind her. “Oh my…” 

Charlie nearly tumbled beside her as his eyes traveled upward. “Thanks for the reminder,” He said under his breath. 

“I forgot it was even here.” She said. 

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real, _right_ _?_ Even in his caricature, her big brother was glassy-eyed and unsalvageable. Even now, he was out of her reach. It was so stereotypically cruel that it was almost funny. 

She clamped her hand over her mouth to soften the sounds of her laughter. 

“What the hell, Gin?” Charlie asked. 

She pointed up to the roof, focusing on the bird’s nest that now resided in their brother’s split head. “You’re telling me this isn’t exactly like something you’d read in a shitty storybook as a kid? It’s so obvious. It’s just lazy storytelling.” 

“Storytelling? He’s our brother,” There was a tinge of humor in Charlie’s voice. 

“That’s why it’s funny!” She squinted at the figures. They used to have top hats. “It all feels like it should be fake.” 

Percy was laughing as well, although he sounded a bit more crazed. Not that she had any right to be the judge of anyone’s sanity. 

Soon, she was doubled over, her ribs aching for breath. She hadn’t laughed- properly laughed, in months. 

Weasleys Wizard Wheezes lived up to its name. 

Harry wasn’t laughing with the rest of them. He was waiting a few storefronts down, doing his very best to pretend every molecule in his body wasn’t aching to go find out what was wrong. Find out why exactly there was now sparkling pink graffiti hanging above them in the sky. 

She appreciated the effort, but his somber demeanor sucked all the humor out of the situation. 

One by one, the Weasleys made their way back to Harry. 

Once again, they left what remained of Fred behind them, and they carried on silently. Following in each other’s footsteps, they marched towards Knockturn Alley. 

Ginny was never brave enough to venture into Knockturn Alley as a kid. The stench of rotten fish and ethanol was more enough to keep her far away from the buildings cloaked in shadow and menace. She didn’t want to know what the strangers in black veils and red hoods were out shopping for, but it seemed they didn’t have a choice. 

Percy had to duck under the overhang to fit in the covered walkway. 

The sound of crumbling mortar and shouted spells were getting louder as they continued through the snaking street. She could make out three voices over all the shattering. Three voices she had never heard before. 

Ginny braced herself for whatever waited for them around the corner. Charlie could fend for himself. He was the one person she wasn’t concerned about. If something went wrong, Percy would need protecting. She needed to make sure he got out in one piece. Harry never knew when to call it quits. He would have to be carried out kicking and screaming. 

Worst case scenario: Charlie could take Percy. Ginny would take Harry. 

“Ready?” Harry asked in a whisper. 

With wild eyes and the determination of a boy that couldn’t be stopped, even by death, he charged forward in search of a problem to solve. Something, anything to fix. The fact that death seemed to bounce from him like a rubber ball worried Ginny. The Boy Who Lived wouldn’t always be so lucky. One day, death would come for him, and Harry Potter, never knowing when to draw the line or throw in the towel, would end up dead. Deep down, she knew that his reckless abandon was going to be the end of him, and it terrified her.

She charged forward with him anyway. 

But instead of a legion of Death Eaters or a gaggle of poltergeists, three women in matching robes stood in front of them, their wands raised to what was left of the dilapidated building. **_Borgin and Burkes_** was etched into the centuries-old stone. _How much had that stone seen as the wizarding world upended itself time and time again?_ How many wars and uprisings and failures had that rubble witnessed?

The four of them faltered as a slight, brunette woman turned her wand to them. A blue and gold crest on her robe glinted under the lingering light of her wand. 

“State your names.” 

Charlie cleared his throat. “Sorry, what?” 

“State your names. What business do you have obstructing Ministry Operations?” 

They quickly exchanged looks. She could practically read each of their minds: ‘ _Are we giving this lady our real names?’_

Percy raised his hand like some obedient schoolboy. “Did you say Ministry business?” 

The woman tilted her head. “Names. Now.” 

“Percival Ignatius Weasley.” 

“You’re giving her your middle name and everything?” He turned to the woman. “Charlie Weasley. My middle name is reserved for first date fodder and family trivia only.” 

Percy nudged Ginny with his knee. “Ginny,” She said shortly. 

“And you young man?” The woman pointed to Harry. 

He chuckled. She was the first person they’d run into all day that didn’t stop and open-mouth stare at him. “Harry,” 

“Harry, what?” 

“...Potter,” 

“Am I supposed to believe you?” 

“Yes?” 

“Show her the dragon tattoo. That’ll prove it.” Charlie said, a grin tugging on his lips. He had been there when Ginny first started that rumor years ago. When Rita Skeeter wrote about it in her rubbish gossip column, Charlie bought as many copies as he could get his hands on. 

Harry pulled up his hair to reveal his scar. “I actually had the tattoo removed, so I hope this is good enough.” 

The woman lowered her wand, satisfied with Harry’s proof of identification. “My apologies, Mr. Potter. I would tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you, but I’m sure you hear that a lot.” 

“Sure,” Harry said quickly, entirely disinterested with her attempt at flattery. “What happened? I’ve never heard of Death Eaters knocking a building off its foundation like this. They usually stick to fire.” 

“Death Eaters? Dear, I’m afraid this has all been one big understanding.” The woman extended her hand to Harry, utterly unconcerned with the Weasleys. “Theodora Quinn, Senior Auror. The Ministry of Magic has ruled to destroy some of the more atrocious landmarks of the war. We failed to calculate what would happen when the magical artifacts inside Borgin and Burkes were destroyed.” 

Ginny slid her wand back into her bloodied boot. “You destroyed a building full of Death Eater heirlooms, and you didn’t stop to think that maybe something bad would happen?” 

Theodora blinked, shocked that Ginny would dare question her. “Well, things in the Ministry have been a bit rushed in the past few weeks.” 

“Obviously.” She heard Harry stifle a laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished plotting the rest of this fic... y'all are in for nearly 30 chapters?


	8. viii. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invitations arrive at The Burrow. They're not the most shocking facet of the morning.

Molly Weasley had a certain stare that was capable of turning the poor soul in her gaze to stone. It was a terrifying combination of fury and maternal disappointment so powerful it could weasel the truth out of even the most stubborn of people. Hermione had never found herself on the guilty side of that stare, but just sitting at the table next to Ron as Mrs. Weasley stared bullets into his skull, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d done something wrong. 

She wasn’t hiding anything. Well, other than the letter that sat tucked under her pillow upstairs, but Hermione felt the overwhelming urge to lay all her secrets out on the crowded table next to the cast iron’s filled with scrambled eggs, mushrooms, and bacon. 

Hermione pushed the food on her plate around with her fork as Molly’s stare grazed her ear. Ron, as oblivious to the world as he was during every meal, hadn’t seemed to notice his mother’s disapproval yet. 

Fleur fluttered about the table, impossibly gorgeous at half-past eight in the morning. Decked out in mauve and Tiffany blue, she was a startling splotch of vibrance amongst the rusty hues of the Weasley household. Her hand rested easily on top of her husbands as he read the latest edition of The Daily Prophet. 

For years, Hermione loathed Fleur. She’d somehow taken her beauty and constant kindness as a threat. If they were both intelligent, both daring, then how could Hermione ever compare? It was wildly embarrassing to think about how immature she was in her younger years. Even after Hermione had scoffed at Fleur for checking her reflection in a hand mirror and pointedly ignored her input in Order meetings, Fleur had opened her doors without a second thought. 

After their escape from Malfoy Manor, it was Fleur at her bedside anytime Harry or Ron couldn’t be there. She made sure Hermione ate when she couldn’t bring herself to, insisting she ate three square meals a day _or else_. She gushed about the books she’d read, her family back in France, where she planned to travel after the war, all so Hermione could take her mind off the searing pain and exhaustion that weighed in her bones. She went on for hours, and mercifully, she never expected a response. 

They hardly knew each other back then, and Fleur hadn’t cared. 

Now, she looked to Hermione over a pitcher of orange juice, a smile lingering on her glossed lips.

Molly cleared her throat, startling her husband and finally breaking the silence. “Does anyone know what time they’ll be back? I don’t want breakfast to get cold.” She asked, her mouth twisted into a grimace. She turned her eyes to Ron. 

“Don’t look at me,” Ron said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m the good one. I didn’t go. They came into my room, and everything and I didn’t go.” 

“Yeah,” George reached across the table for another piece of toast. His teacup refilled itself as it left his hand. “We’re the good ones.” 

He seemed to have recovered from the previous night’s eruption. Hermione couldn’t help but feel like it was her fault. She had been the one to complain about how quiet everyone was being. She told Harry they needed to stop bottling everything up. Then, in a matter of hours, the Weasley’s were at each other’s throat. Trelawney was always going on about the power of manifestation and vibrations and _crystals._ How they can affect people’s emotions without the need for charms and potions. Couldn’t Hermione be at least partially responsible for what happened last night? 

“You didn’t think to stop them?” Molly asked. 

Bill was still reading his paper, moving from sports to classifieds. “They left a note. Isn’t that what you used to get mad at us for, not leaving a note?” 

“They left the car too!” Ron added with a mouthful of eggs. He didn’t notice as Hermione scrapped her untouched potatoes onto his plate. “They aren’t breaking anyone out of the Dursley’s. They’re _shopping_.” 

Arthur leaned over towards his wife. “They’re all adults, Love.” 

“Ginny is sixteen!” Molly clamped her mouth shut, fuming with vexation. If Hermione was worried, she could only imagine how Molly felt with three of her kids out in Diagon Alley accompanied by the most beloved and loathed boy in the wizarding world. “They can do as they like, I know, but I don’t have to like it.” 

“Look, post.” Arthur pulled himself from his seat, obviously relieved to escape the growing tension of the breakfast table. Hermione had to do a double-take to ensure it wasn’t the same owl she’d seen a few moments ago at her window as Arthur retrieved the massive pile of letters. “We must have done something wrong because there’s one for each of us.” He remarked. 

Ron groaned as he was handed his letter. “More from the Ministry?” He asked, ripping into the envelope. “Those owls are poaching us.” 

Hermione chuckled as she was handed her letter as if her life hadn’t been turned on its head by a barn owl just ten minutes ago. Kinsley had mentioned that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was still trying to recruit them, but they had never sent out letters in droves like this before. 

Molly pulled her reading glasses above her nose and began to read her post aloud. The cardstock in her hand looked more like a wedding invitation than a job offer. 

_Molly Prewett Weasley,_

_It is with great honor and reverence that the Ministry of Magic invites you_

_to attend a Ceremony of Recognition for your participation in the war effort._

_May the next chapter of Wizarding history be the brightest yet._

_May 30, 1998_

_8:00 p.m_

“Ceremony of Recognition?” Ron asked. 

Bill lowered his newspaper. “It’s Ministry code. They’re throwing a party so they can say they’re sorry and bribe us with champagne.” 

“How much champagne are we talking?” George asked as he inspected his own cream-colored invitation. 

“Enough to make up for a dead brother and a lifetime of emotional baggage.” Ron offered. 

George nodded thoughtfully, “That’s a lot of champagne. I’m sold.” 

They fell silent once again. Not out of the typical grief or anger but out of complete and utter confusion as they processed and reprocessed what he had said. It was insulting, an apology gala being thrown by the very people they had fought against. Hermione suddenly realized that she was bracing herself against the table, preparing for someone, maybe even herself, to fly into a rage. Yet George Weasley, who had every right to riot and cause a scene, had casually accepted the invitation. 

“Are you crazy? We’re not going.” Bill said. 

“Why not?” 

“Because, like I said, They’re throwing us a party to make up for all the bullshit they put us through. Think about it, when was the last time the Ministry did something helpful or genuine? No offense Dad.” 

Arthur sorted through the rest of the letters leaving the last four on the counter. “Simply saying _‘no offense’_ doesn’t make anything less offensive.” 

“Muggle Artifacts get a pass,” Ron said. “Unless it was you that tried to sic the Aurors on us.” 

“Anyway, the point is, it’s all for show. It’s a PR scheme. This way, they can wipe the slate clean and act like nothing ever happened.” 

“But if they’re going to waste their money on making themselves look good, shouldn’t we milk it for all it’s worth?” George asked. 

“You want to go out of spite?” 

A grin spread across his face. “Oh, we’re definitely going out of spite.” George’s face was thinner now than it used to be, almost sallow, but worn and haggard as he was, it was obvious he was the same man that set off fireworks during her fifth-year OWLS. Despite everything he had been through, there was mischief lurking behind his eyes.

“I think it could be fun,” Fleur said 

George’s head shot up. “Your wife thinks it’s a good idea. Now you have to go.” 

“This isn’t fair.” 

“We have to go, right Mum?” George pleaded. 

Molly held her head in her hands, her voice strained. “We’ll talk about it, but-” A mist of terror fell over her face. “For Merlin’s sake, whose blood is that?”

Harry, Charlie, Ginny, and Percy were hardly through the door before everyone was up from their seats, yelling questions that couldn’t be heard over one another. She could take solace in the fact that they were all standing, but _why were they always covered in blood?_ Which was better, their own or someone else’s?

“We’re fine,” Ginny announced. 

“You don’t look it,” Arthur said. 

Harry’s wild eyes were taking inventory of the room, his knuckles white from the grip on his wand. It looked like he’d been plucked from a battleground and dropped into the domesticity of The Burrow against his will. He looked almost more staggering than Ginny, drenched in drying blood, glass clinging to the end of her robes. 

_Almost_. 

Ginny repeated herself in an attempt to calm everyone’s growing unease. “We’re fine.” 

“The hell happened?” Ron asked. 

“Language, Ronald,” Molly said instinctively. “What happened? You’re sure you’re alright? Should I take you to St Mungo’s because you look dreadful?” She rattled, her hands cupping Ginny’s face. 

“Mum,” She began. “I’m okay. Charlie healed me, and we’re all fine.” 

George threw his head back with laughter. “You let Charlie cast a spell on you?”

“Charlie Weasley? Like, our Charlie Weasley?” Bill asked. Fleur had left his side, immediately rushing to dote on Ginny. 

Percy shifted uncomfortably beside his brother. His face was sour. He and Charlie exchanged a look that Hermione couldn’t quite read. The Weasleys did a lot of wordless communication that flew straight over her head. It served as a reminder that she was in someone else's home, intruding on their lives, their grief, their decades-old traditions. 

“Percy was busy, Harry didn’t have his glasses. We had to make do.” Charlie said. “In case you all have forgotten, I was also a prefect. I was a prefect _before_ Percy was a prefect. Unlike you lot, I had the same professors seven years in a row.” 

“What happened?” Hermione asked.

Charlie kicked off his shoes, adding them to an ever-growing pile in the corner of the entry. “Our friends at the Department of Law Enforcement decided to tear down Borgin and Burkes without taking any of the cursed objects out of the building first. They just figured it would all work out. Did you know, when an exploding gauntlet is destroyed, it does in fact, explode? Apparently, that’s information that Senior Aurors don’t understand yet.” 

“They’re all incompetent,” Harry said. “There was so much going on I was sure they were Death Eaters.” 

Ron crossed his arms. “And let me guess, you still went looking for what was wrong anyway?”

Harry didn’t respond. Of course, he ran headfirst into the face of danger. He probably did it without any semblance of hesitation or forethought. A single scrap of self-preservation instinct was all that she asked of him. The nerves in the pit of Hermione’s stomach were firmly cemented there now, strengthened by the fact that she was right. Danger still lurked beyond the wards of the Burrow. 

“Did you even bring back any groceries?” Bill asked. 

“My sincerest apologies. Next time I’ll leave our baby sister to bleed out so I can snag you some vegetables.” Bill shot. 

Ginny’s mouth dropped into a pout. “Baby sister?” 

“You were in diapers like four months ago, Gin. Baby is generous.” Charlie was doing his very best not to smile. 

“I’m seventeen in three months.” She countered. 

George plopped himself back down in his seat. “Would you prefer toddler?” 

“Sod off, George.” 

Eventually, they dispersed. Arthur headed back into the kitchen, George and Percy slunk back to their rooms, someone upstairs started the shower. Fleur and Molly were still at Ginny’s side, acting as if she had just risen from the dead. Every few minutes, Hermione could catch a stray french phrase slip into the conversation. 

Hermione stood beside Ron and Harry. She didn’t want to lecture him. He was an adult, fully capable of making his own decisions no matter how stupid they were. She didn’t want to lecture him, but keeping her mouth shut didn’t come easily to Hermione Granger. 

She had been right. It was dangerous. 

“I know you’re mad,” Harry said before she had the chance to tell him. “It was stupid. I know.” It wasn’t an apology so much as it was a peace offering. If he said sorry, he would have to promise not to do it again, everyone knew that wasn’t an option.

“Did it ever cross your mind to apparate back?” She asked. 

Ron scoffed. “Do you even have to ask him that?” More questions she already knew the answers to. 

“No, but I was hoping he would surprise me.”


	9. ix. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds himself trapped. Ginny thinks it's funny.

When they had first gotten home, nearly a month before, the first thing Ginny did was take a shower. Leaning her head back in the face of scalding water, she scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, nearly bleeding. She scrubbed every visible sign of war from her body and then some, letting it wash down the drain to be forgotten. A small part of her had hoped she could simply disappear along with the soot and the grime and the tears. 

The water wasn’t as hot as she showered this time. She wasn’t washing off the stench of war and loss, only dried blood and condescension. Not that she had the chance to take a hot shower, the water immediately ran cold. Charlie dared to use all the hot water despite the fact he wasn’t the one crusted in blood. 

Her arms still stung. The risen patches of bright pink skin above the rest of her muscle stood offended by the cold water and clean air that hit them. She shut off the water before the chill became unbearable. 

Even when they weren’t talking to one another, the house was noisy. Doors slammed against their frames, spells echoed off flat surfaces, chairs scratched against the old wooden floors. Maybe inspired by the recent chaos, everyone was particularly loud as their concern waned and morning rolled into the afternoon.

Ginny could hear Harry’s voice in the hallway, sharp and even, it cut through the bathroom door. Her mother’s voice followed suit. 

“It’s just,” He faltered. “You all have done so much for me. I want to make it up to you.” 

“Absolutely not!” Was all her mother said. 

Ginny could hear the shifting sound of metal clinking against metal. “I don’t need it.” 

“Harry Potter, I am not taking your money. This is nonnegotiable. We don’t need it, we don’t want it, we’re not taking it. What kind of mother would I be if I allowed that?” 

“Mrs. Weasley, I-” 

Her voice softened. “No. You’re young; go spend your money on something fun.” With that, she marched away, her footsteps growing softer and softer until she was gone. 

As soon as Ginny was sure her mother was gone, she pushed open the door. Grabbing Harry by the wrist, she yanked him into the bathroom. The door swung shut behind him without her having to lay a finger on it. She turned the lock on the handle. 

“Are you trying to pay off my mother for giving you a place to sleep? Please tell me you’re not trying to pay off my mother.” 

“You’re naked.” 

“I’m wearing a towel, you prude.” 

_“You’re naked.”_

Harry’s head was turned nearly ninety degrees away from her. His eyes were trained on a shampoo bottle with such intensity that it must have been the most interesting thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Ginny swallowed a laugh. He was almost too easy to fluster. There was barely any space between the two of them. She’d accidentally trapped Harry in between herself and the porcelain sink. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Potter.” Well, she wasn’t trying very hard to seduce him. It didn’t seem like a difficult feat. “Tell me you weren’t trying to pay us back for being nice to you. That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.” 

He hesitated. “It’s… rent?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Do you think Hermione is paying us rent?” 

Now, he was staring at the light above her head. “You guys deserve the money.” 

“No one in this house is taking your money.” She wanted to reach out and hold his face in her hand, but she feared he might combust if she tried. Instead, she stared him down, trying not to relish in how he squirmed under her attention. “You don’t have to repay us for caring about you. If we didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.” 

Harry let out a breath, his face falling. “You’ve done so much for me. I want to make sure you’re taken care of- if that’s even the right word for it.” 

Her heart sank. _He wanted to take care of them._ Like what he had already done for them wasn’t enough. “They’ve routed us more reward money than we could ever spend. Dad has his promotion, and everyone but me has a job. You don’t need to take care of anyone but yourself.”

Both of them froze as someone tried for the knob on the other side of the door. She silently thanked herself for thinking to lock the door. 

“Shit,” Ginny cursed under her breath. “Just a second.” She called. 

George knocked against the door. “Gin, stop primping in the mirror. I have to pee.” 

“Like I said, come back in a second.” Ginny pressed her ear against the door once again, listening for the decrescendo of footsteps against the creaking floor. Water dripped from her hair. “I think he’s gone.” 

Harry dropped his shoulders. “You’re sure?’ 

“Yeah, you can go.” 

“Me?” 

“Considering you’re such a _gentleman_ , I’m guessing you don’t want to watch me change. You can go first, but if I see those galleons anywhere but your pockets,” She threatened. 

Harry moved to say something but stopped himself, his lips parted. If she leaned in just three inches, she could have kissed him. He was right there, finally looking her in the eyes. For a moment, she considered it.

He maneuvered around her towards the door, his eyes lingering for barely a moment before he reached for the lock and left. Harry slammed the door shut behind him. “Hey, erm- uh, someone is in there. Sorry.” 

_Damn it._

“Oh really, Potter?” George asked. Ginny couldn’t see him, and she didn’t have to. She knew there was an insufferable Cheshire grin plastered across his face. “The kitchen right before the wedding, the staircase, now the bathroom. Have you sunken so low?” 

“That’s not what-” He began, “We weren’t, er, it was nice to see you.” 

“You’re an absolute twat, Geroge Weasley. Do you know that? _Absolute twat._ ” Ginny called as she threw on her clothes, wringing her hair out into the sink. 

He chuckled. “You’re just mad you got caught with your boyfriend.” 

“Not my boyfriend,” She corrected. “Shouldn’t you be trying to win me over?” Ginny asked, pulling open the door to reveal her brother smugly leaning against the opposite wall. Yep, there was that infuriating Cheshire grin. “You’re the only one that wants to go to that stupid party. If you don’t have me on your side, you don’t have Harry _or_ Ron _or_ Hermione. There’s no way in hell Mum will let you go on your own, not after today.” 

“And today’s situation is whose fault, again?” He asked, turning his head to the side. 

“Does it matter?” She asked. “You still have to make up for all the shit you pulled last night.” 

Almost imperceptibly, his grin dimmed. “Are you going to let me in the loo, or are you going to lecture me all day.” 

“I haven’t decided yet.” Ginny dodged as he attempted to grab the towel wrapped around her hair. “Hey!” 

George stuck out his tongue before disappearing into the bathroom. 

“Going for the hair is cowardly!” 

“Can’t hear you,” 

In their room, Hermione sat in bed, her knees pulled up to her chin. Her nose was firmly planted in a book, Ginny couldn’t help but bask in how normal it all seemed. George was joking with her, Harry was doing what he did best (and what he did best was worry), and Hermione was thumbing through a tome that looked dreadfully boring. 

Ginny sat in front of her dusty floor-length mirror. Her fingers fumbled in her wet hair as she made her best attempt at french braiding. She’d never been good at it; it must be the shape of her fingers or maybe the angle she was braiding from because the result was an embarrassing pattern of knots sloping off her head. An owl would have had better luck. 

She huffed at her reflection. “Hermione,” 

“Hmm?” She was still engrossed in the yellowing pages of ‘ _The Annotated History of Defense Against Creatures of the Dark: What to Spot and How to Surprise Them.’_ With a title that long, Ginny wasn’t sure what was left to be written about. 

“I need help.” 

Hermione’s hands met her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. “Come here,” she waved towards herself. “Can you not braid?” 

“I have six older brothers, I never learned.” Ginny lowered herself down onto the cinderblock mattress, letting Hermione study the mess she needed to tame. “Luna tried to teach me, but she’s never been great at giving directions.” 

“What you’ve done is more impressive than braiding. Turn around, I’ll fix it.” Hermione worked through the knots quickly. Parting her hair down the middle, she separated them into even chunks. Just as usual, she was methodical and deliberate, never needing to redo a section or go back for a stray strand of hair. Hermione was an only child while Ginny was the exact opposite- if that was possible. Despite the difference, neither of them had a sister. After the years they’d spent together due to pure circumstance, Ginny liked to think Hermione was the closest thing she had to a sister. She had Fleur, of course, but Fleur had lived an entire life before the two of them met. Hermione had always been there. Fleur already had a sister as much as she liked Ginny; she didn’t need another. 

Hermione’s hands were still working in her hair. “I need your advice.” 

“My advice?” 

She took a deep breath, preparing herself for what could only be a trademarked Hermione Granger info dump. “I got a letter this morning,” She began. 


	10. x. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione asks for advice and calms someone's fears.

Ginny Weasley was the type of person to talk you off a cliff and then convince you to go skydiving the very next day. Every decision she made was one of measured recklessness. When things ended poorly for her, it wasn’t because she didn’t see it coming; it was because she saw the reward was bigger than the risk, and she knew precisely which risks were worth taking. Which gold rush was worth the heartbreak, and which adventures were worth the battle scars. So Hermione regurgitated every detail, every feeling, every punctuation mark, as her mind stayed focused on the automatic motion of braiding the red hair running through her hands. Absorbing the information like a plant does sunlight, Ginny sat and listened. Her mouth was dry when the story finally ended. 

“Does anyone else know?” Was the very first thing Ginny asked when she finally had the chance to whip her head around. 

Hermione leaned against the wall behind her. “No one. I was going to tell Ron, but then you stumbled in on death’s door, and it didn’t seem as important.” 

She shook her head. “Death’s door?” 

“You looked terrifying.” 

Ginny ran her hand across her newly tamed hair. “That’s fair. So what are you going to do?” 

“What would you do?” 

“Are you kidding? I would take it in a heartbeat, but Kingsley didn’t offer it to me. That’s probably half the reason he didn’t offer it to me.” 

Hermione chewed at her nails despite the fact that there wasn’t anything left to chew on. If her mother was there, she would have scolded her for ruining her teeth. _If her mother was there_ instead of roaming Australia without a single memory of her. She bit down harder. “I just don’t understand; why me?” 

“Obviously, he thinks you’re the most qualified.” 

“But surely that’s not true.” 

Ginny stared at her disapprovingly. “Aren’t we going to be at the Ministry in a couple days for that dumbass ceremony? If you don’t believe me, you could just ask him.” 

“We’re actually going to that?” Hermione asked.

“George wants to go.” Was all she offered. It seemed that George was the only convincing Ginny needed. She waved her hand, changing the conversation. “Anyway, when you take the job- if you take the job, I’m expecting a position in The Order. Kingsley wouldn’t let me join because I was _too young,’_ whatever that means. I was allowed to run Dumbledore’s Army. I was allowed to smuggle information out of Hogwarts, but joining The Order, that was unthinkable for a shrinking violet like myself.” 

“In a theoretical universe where I take Kingsley up on his offer, you can join,” She paused. “As soon as you graduate.” 

Ginny’s mouth fell open. “Hermione Granger!” 

“I’m kidding,” 

Ginny steepled her hands. The remnants of black nail polish clung to her nails. “Let’s say you talk to Kingsley, and you turn him down. What are you doing instead?” She asked. 

“No clue,” Hermione admitted. She was beginning to sound like a broken clock. She didn’t have the answers anymore.

“So you don’t know if you want to take the job, but you don’t know what you would do if you didn’t take the job? You’re not giving me much to work with.” 

“Sorry,” For a moment, neither of them said anything. “Can I admit something?” 

Ginny nodded. 

“I didn’t really think we would get this far. I didn’t make many plans for after the war since I didn’t think there would be an after. I was so worried about survival that I never considered what life would be like if we actually survived. Now, I don’t know what to do with myself.” Her blood ran cold as she said it. Somewhere along the way, Hermione had lost the hope she carried with her when she entered the Wizarding World at just eleven years old. She was a different person now, and without the optimism of her youth, she feared she was a worse person. “I’ve never been this directionless before.” 

Ginny didn’t say anything at first. What would she even have to say to that? “I don’t think you have to know what to do yet. Honestly, I’d think you were mental if you just carried on like nothing ever happened.” There was an understanding in her voice that nearly brought Hermione to tears. “I think it’s alright if you let yourself get lost for a little while. You don't always need a direction." 

The next few days passed in near-identical succession. Everyone would make small talk in the morning over breakfast, careful to avoid anything that might be of the slightest significance as Arthur gave them their mail. Bill would relay the most interesting parts of the paper- apparently, Rita Skeeter was writing a book. Percy would excuse himself as soon as possible. George and Charlie would exchange banter until they were blue in the face. Then, everyone would bide their time until Molly called them down for the next meal. Ginny would ask what Hermione’s book was about, and they both knew she didn’t care in the slightest. Fleur would stop by occasionally, desperate for a respite from all the testosterone. Hermione would catch glimpses of Ron and Harry in the hallway just long enough to be sure they were still standing. 

They would go to bed, and it would all begin again. 

It was monotonous, but everyone was on speaking terms again, so Hermione would take it, even if she wanted to pull her hair out. She would take it. 

She slept in fits. They weren’t nightmares exactly; they weren’t flashbacks either - just glimpses of the past. Snapshots of her life, mostly innocuous, flying through her head for only a moment or two before they were gone. Snowball fights in Hogsmeade followed by late nights studying and then a flash of Bellatrix’s menacing face. She was never scared when she woke up, just more exhausted than when her head hit the pillow. 

There was no point in tossing and turning all night, she decided finally. 

The lights were already on as she crept down the stairs, book nestled in the crook of her arm. Harry sat alone with a crumpled envelope levitating in front of him. He clutched his wand lazily. 

Hermione glanced at the clock: _4:02_. “You’re up early,” She said quietly. As far as she was concerned, four a.m., not midnight, was the true witching hour. No longer night and not yet morning, it was a beast entirely its own. The last hours of twilight had a magic that simply couldn’t be found anywhere else. Everything that should be black was deep blue, more lively than it meant to be. Everything bright was muted, calmer, kinder. In a different universe, a more romantic universe, she would have proposed they go stargazing. In a more romantic universe, neither of them would be awake right now. 

He shrugged. “Never went to sleep. I swear I just need someone to sedate me so I can sleep for more than an hour at a time.” 

“I hear Ron’s been working on his right hook. He could probably knock you out if you asked.” She said.

“He’s already offered.” 

Hermione nodded. She took the seat beside him, sinking into the well-worn fabric. “I figured. If it makes you feel any better, I can sleep, but I always wake up just as tired.” 

“Nightmares?” He asked. Based on the bags that hung under his eyes, she guessed he was asking out of personal experience. His trip to Diagon Alley hadn’t done him any favors, he’d been jumpy these past few days. He didn’t want her pity, but she had plenty to give him. For the time being, she would keep it to herself. 

“Not quite,” 

He set his wand down on the coffee table. The wrinkled envelope fell to the floor. “I shouldn’t have gotten any of you wrapped up in this.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “How many times have we had this conversation?” It was a rhetorical question more than anything. 

“I know,” 

“The day we sat together in that train compartment is the day we sealed our fate. You, Ron, and I always would have found each other. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had any friends.” She could still remember the exhilarating mix of excitement and anxiety that filled her as she stepped onto the Hogwarts Express for the first time and the absolute relief that accompanied finding someone to sit with. The instant connection she felt with Harry and Ron even when she found them stuffing a cart’s worth of candy into their mouths.

“That’s not true,” 

“Do you remember First year?” 

Harry’s face contorted in an attempt to be polite. “You were-” 

“Obnoxious? An insufferable know it all?” 

Dropping the facade, he let himself smile. Actually smile in a way she hadn’t seen in nearly a year. Happiness suited his jagged features. She wished she could see it on him more often. “You got better!” He offered. “Adjusting to the Wizarding World was weird. I wouldn’t have survived if you weren’t an insufferable know it all.” He took a moment to look around the room like he was still in disbelief that he had a roof over his head. “I wouldn’t have survived anything if you weren’t there.” 

“Well, you needed someone in your corner.” She pulled her feet onto the couch, yet another offense her mother might have scolded her for if she were there. “You don’t have to pay people back for being there for you.” It felt almost intrusive to bring up what Ginny had deemed ‘ _The Bathroom Situation,'_ but Hermione didn’t know when she would get to talk to him alone again. 

“She told you?” He asked, pressing a hand to his brow in embarrassment. 

“Of course she told me!” Hermione said just a little too loudly. “She considered holding an intervention, but she didn’t want you to slip any galleons into our pockets while we were there.” 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not like that,” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Then what is it?” 

He hesitated, speaking with all the confidence of someone who was making up their narrative as they go. “Gratitude?”

“You don’t sound very sure of yourself.” 

With that, he pulled off his cracked glasses, his tired eyes roamed aimlessly. Like they were in the Gryffindor Common Room again, the two of them sat in familiar and comfortable silence for the rest of the morning. They sat together long before the sun dared to show itself because they were Harry Potter and Hermoine Granger, and even when their lives were stable and average, neither of them slept. It’s easier to sit with your thoughts if there isn’t anything awake to distract you. 

Harry leaned against her, chin hooked around her shoulder as she read. He interrupted every few pages to correct the author and their dreadfully archaic passages about werewolves. If it wasn’t the only book in her possession Hermione hadn’t read yet, she wouldn’t have read it at all. 

Things like this were far more productive things than sleep. 

“What do you think I have to do to get out of going to that Ceremony tonight?” He asked as she turned a page. 

“That’s tonight?”


	11. xi. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny lets a secret slip. Her brothers are in desperate need of fashion advice.

In all honesty, the idea of going to a _‘Ceremony of Recognition’_ made Ginny want to gouge her eyes out. A pretentious name for a pretentious event filled with hours of dreadful pandering followed by dancing and polite conversation with bureaucrats. It was at the very bottom of her list, but it was the first thing she had seen George get excited about in weeks. 

For George, she would go, and she would drag everyone else along with her. He deserved to go and stir up trouble and act like himself again. She deserved the chance to watch him stir up trouble and act like himself again. 

Ginny stared herself down in the mirror, trying to get one side of her face to look like the other side of her face. It was a deceptively difficult feat. 

There was a knock at her open door. Bill stood in her doorway, a red leather jacket pulled over his t-shirt despite the summer heat. “You’re absolutely sure we have to go to this thing?”

“We’re going. Why are you dressed like a Greaser? I know that you’ve never touched a motorcycle in your life.” She sized up his outfit. “Is that Charlie’s jacket?” 

“I’m not dressed like anything,” He said, his chin firmly jutted in the air. “This is just what I wear. I pulled this out of my closet as we were packing.” 

“Well, don’t let Harry see you.” She said absentmindedly, returning to her reflection. 

Bill blinked in confusion. “Don’t let Harry see me?” 

Ginny clamped her eyes shut, kicking herself for letting it slip. Where was her mind? Probably packed away in the brown cardboard boxes that sat blocking the hallway outside Bill and Fleur’s room. “You can’t tell him I told you. He’ll never speak to me again if you tell him.” 

“Okay,” He said tentatively; a hint of confusion hung to his tone. 

“Harry thinks you’re cool.” She tried to get the words out as quickly as possible in hopes that he would miss what she was saying. “He used to think you were cool when he was younger and full of naivete.” 

His voice was barely above a whisper. “You should not have given me this knowledge,” 

“I’m already regretting it.” She waved an eyeshadow brush in his direction. “The only reason I’m telling you at all is because I know you would be unbearable for the rest of the night otherwise.” 

“The Chosen One thinks I’m cool,” 

“ _Don’t call him that._ ” She said reflexively. “He also thinks Ron is cool. Harry isn’t exactly a barometer for coolness. It’s one of his weakest skills, actually.” 

“Harry Potter thinks I’m cool.” Bill repeated. 

Ginny hung her head dramatically, aware of just how ridiculous the entire situation was. “I’ve blown it. He’s never talking to me again.” 

Bill pointed at her with two hands, still giddy with his newfound knowledge. “I actually came here for a reason.” He reached into the front pocket of his stiff jacket and produced a key. “Keep it somewhere safe. You’re the only sibling getting one. If the boys need to use it, they can, but you’re the responsible one, so you can hold on to it.” 

Ginny took the key. “Me?” 

He leaned against the doorframe. The claw-shaped scars that climbed up his face compressed as he smiled. She still wasn’t entirely used to his new appearance or his wolfish tendencies. She was nearly sick the first time she witnessed him eat a raw steak over the kitchen sink. He snarled now, actually snarled. Still, nothing obvious about him changed, but obvious changes are the easiest to adjust to. Nuance will sneak up on you when you least expect it. It’s nuance that will bite you in the ass. 

“Fleur requested I hand-deliver it to you. If she wasn’t sorting through evening gowns with Hermione right now, she probably would have given it to you herself.” 

She turned the key over in her hand a few times. The cool metal sent a chill up her arm. “Shouldn’t you give this to Percy? He’s the actual responsible one.” 

“You’re not going to disappear for two years.” 

Ginny shook her head. More animosity between brothers she hadn’t even been aware of. _Where did they find the time?_ “He found his way back. You can’t hold that over him forever.” 

“He wasn’t going to heal you, Gin. He made Charlie cast a spell on you. What kind of brother does that? _Charlie_.” 

“Charlie did fine.” She said shortly. She hadn’t wanted him to heal her either, but Bill wasn’t allowed to know that. “Like he said, he was a prefect. They deal with injuries far worse than mine every day in Romania.” 

His nostrils flared. “And they have a healer to deal with it. Your arms are still swollen. I mean, that is some shoddy craftsmanship if I’ve ever seen it.” 

Something was rising in her once again. “He’s back. Isn’t that what matters?” 

“It does matter. For the first time in years, I don’t have to wonder where he is. That doesn’t mean I’m giving him a key.” 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“Always have been.” He said proudly.

Her shoulders tensed. “He’s not going to get any better until you trust him.” 

“I’m not trusting him until he gets better.” 

Ginny exhaled hoping it would take anger and breath alike out with it. Lashing out at Bill every time he burst into her room wasn’t going to become a habit. Not yet, anyway. She twisted the key in her hand again, letting it weave through her fingers. Tempting as it may be, yelling at Bill wouldn’t fix Percy. It wouldn’t fix Percy, and it wouldn’t fix her. She slipped the key into her pocket. 

She shook off the growing irritation. He was crawling under her skin like a mite. She supposed that’s what older brothers were meant to do. “Please tell me you’re going to change. Is Fleur letting you leave the house like that?” 

“Oh, Merlin no. There’s a reason I haven’t broken this jacket in yet. She despises it.” 

“I love that woman.” 

Bill gestured to his outfit once more. “I don’t understand the problem. What’s wrong with it? This is what’s in with Muggles right now. You can ask Hermione.” 

Ginny scoffed. “It’s red leather. I feel like I don’t need to say anything else.” 

“I’m leaving. This is harassment,” He moved to turn on his heels. “I’m assuming I’ll see you in a few minutes so you can go dress shopping in my closet.” 

“I won’t be seeing you; I’ll be seeing your perfect wife who understands that half your wardrobe is an affront to humanity.” 

“I think I might just go pay Harry a visit,” He threatened. 

He left in the opposite direction of Harry’s room. “Love you,” Ginny said. 

“Whatever,” 

She wasn’t paying particularly close attention as she finished the rest of her makeup. Much like braiding (and keeping secrets apparently), makeup had never been her strong suit. It required precision and gentleness that Ginny lacked in the tips of her fingers. She knew Fleur would fix the most egregious of her mistakes anyway. Attention to detail was her forte. 

Her vision grew soft, and her reflection in the mirror faded from view as her mind wandered. She didn’t think about anything specific. She wasn’t nearly organized enough these days to do that. Her mind simply wandered to a time that wasn’t now. Mostly Christmases, some of them from when she was little, barely old enough to understand there was a holiday at all, and some of them recent, Harry and Hermione beside her as they unwrapped initialed jumpers. She loved the biting cold of December. The soft glow of candlelight that followed her everywhere she stepped. The bittersweet haze of Christmas that invited reflection and audacious hope. December, much like herself, was fierce and wild and scarlet. 

But her mind wandered other places in the heat of May, Quidditch matches, late-night treks up to the astronomy tower, piano recitals, the Room of Requirement with Harry. She thought back to Yule Ball and the dull ache in her feet that was drowned out by punch and adrenaline and nostalgia. The memories floated through her mind without any semblence of purpose. They were nothing more than clouds passing through her mind for her to linger upon if she could muster the will to single them out and look. 

The key to Bill’s house weighed heavy in her pocket. It was a simple responsibility, but it felt big. It felt important, somehow. Out of everyone, he and Fleur had picked her. 

She didn’t think about The Chamber of Secrets much anymore. She had much larger tragedies and much rawer trauma to crawl through her mind and haunt her nightmares. It was more or less a footnote in her life now, something she only ever stumbled upon if she was flipping through the glossary of her life. Still, it stung to dwell on. She remembered the isolation in that first year away from home. She had been possessed, _actually possessed,_ in a way only Harry Potter himself could relate to. Her every move had been controlled like she was some overgrown marionette. Surrounded by big brothers, professors, and classmates, she managed to slip through the cracks. No one noticed until she was gone. 

Until she was nearly dead. 

Bill wouldn’t have given her a key back then. Obviously, she was a child, but even if she wasn’t, she hadn’t been important to them yet. It was an odd experience: growing into your family’s respect. Growing into their recognition. 

They were all slipping through the cracks now. They were coming apart at the seams, racing to stitch themselves up in time. Ginny could feel it weighing on her shoulders. She could feel it weighing in the conversations she had with her brothers. She could feel it weighing in that key in her pocket. 

Two flashes of red and grey rushed by her door, then doubled back. “Have you seen ‘Mione?” Ron asked. Charlie tailed behind him, a glass of who knows what in his hand threatened to spill out onto the floor. 

“Why so you can ogle at her?” She asked. Hermione hadn’t divulged much about her and Ron, but it didn’t take much to put the pieces together. Ginny had seen them immediately after the battle, holding onto one another for dear life like somehow the world might slip away if they were separated for even a moment. She saw the way he stared at Hermione every time she brushed past him. 

He’d looked at her that way for years now. The only people who believed Ron and Hermione were a secret were Ron and Hermione. Even then, Ginny had to question how well they thought they were hiding it. 

“I need her to tell me if this looks okay.” 

Charlie leaned against him. Black liner surrounded his eyes. Ginny probably should have asked him for help. “I told him he looks charming.” He said. 

She took a long look at what he was wearing. Grey, muted, average. It wasn’t the shimmering burgundy Charlie was wearing, but it would do. “Is that the suit you wore to Bill’s wedding?” 

“Well, I’m not going to wear dress robes.” 

“You look fine.” She waved him away. “You couldn’t ask Harry?” 

Ron laughed in disbelief that she would even dare to ask such a question. “Harry used to live in a cupboard. I’m not asking him for any fashion advice. ‘Mione always looks nice.” 

She shook her head. Ron was annoying when he was lovestruck. “I’m going to be sick.” 

“Right!” Bill exclaimed. “Hermione this, ‘Mione that, then he sits up in his room all day and pines. If you think she looks so good, you could just go tell her.” 

“What are you drinking?” Ron asked defensively. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

“If Mum asks, it’s lemonade.” 

Ginny wasn’t sure who to focus on. Charlie with his arms sloppily wrapped around Ron, forcing him to sway in tandem or Ron, serious as stone and moments away from a crisis. “Just make your move, you coward.” Ginny said. 

“We were talking earlier, and it’s all just... I can’t be what she wants me to-” Ron stopped himself but she could tell he was rambling in his head. “It’s complicated.” 

Charlie sipped his drink over Ron’s shoulder. “It doesn’t seem complicated.” 

Ron’s arms were crossed. She’d rarely seen him this serious. “Well, it is.” His eyes focused on Ginny sitting on the floor. “And you’re one to talk about making a move.” 

“This isn’t about me.” Ginny said quickly. 

He huffed. “You’re sure I look okay?” 

“It’s a grey suit. With the exception of Charlie, you’ll look like every other man there.” 

“I’m finding ‘Mione,” 

Charlie chortled. “Did ya hear that? He’s finding ‘Mione,” He ruffled Ron’s hair. “He’s going to mumble at her until she compliments him, and they both turn red. What comes after that? Waddling off and avoiding her for the rest of the night?” Ron broke free from his grasp, leaving as fast as he could. Charlie continued. “Drinks in my room, tell your friends. If you tell Mum and Dad, you’re dead to me. If we're going, we're partying." 

One of his arms stretched to the top of the doorframe. "It's a shame we were never in school together, Gin. I used to throw one hell of a party." 

"I've heard." Contrary to popular opinion, the Weasley reputation at Hogwarts had not begun with Fred and George. The twins had simply undone all the work Percy had put in to ' _restore their family name_ ’. 

He left with a wink. 


	12. xii. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys pre-game. Hermione has to wonder when Ron Weasley started looking like that.

Hermione tentatively grabbed the jagged wand from the bottom of her trunk. Familiar and alien at the same time, she could feel the echoes of past spells bounce through the old wand, through her arm, into her bloodstream. She could almost taste the incantations on her lips, incantations she’d never spoken. It’s the very same wand Bellatrix used to torture her in Malfoy Manor. The same wand Hermione used as the war was finally brought to its explosive end by a bunch of school kids. Ugly and crooked and splintering at the end like it could hardly channel the dark magic that was forced through it over the past decades. She shoved it into her bag alongside the Phoenix pin Kingsley had sent her. Together, they could rattle against each other all night and send her anxiety spiraling. 

She wasn’t going to bring a wand at all, but the idea of leaving the wards of the Burrow unarmed didn’t seem like a viable option. If worse came to worst- and it often did, she would need to be prepared. She wouldn’t be able to run in Fleur’s heels, which were easily two or three inches taller than anything Hermione had worn before. Besides that, she doubted there was magic left in her system, but at the very least, she had a wand. That in itself was comforting. Maybe she could stab someone with it before she went down. To be fair, it resembled a knife far more than an arcane focus. 

Ginny primped in front of the mirror, her hair curling away from her face in loose spirals. Her long navy dress (yet another gift from Fleur who might as well have sponsored the event with the amount of work and clothing she’d put in) clung to her hips so perfectly it must have been the work of Veela magic. Not that Ginny needed any Veela assistance, but she was almost unnervingly gorgeous as she paced back and forth across the room in search of earrings. Hermione could spot the remnants of a long-gone gash on the back of her neck. Her inner arms were still light pink and swollen with the signs of a healing spell. 

“What did you say was in this drink?” Hermione asked. 

“Oh, I have absolutely no clue. All Charlie said was that it was strong. He gave me something with Daisyroot in it earlier, it was like drinking a bouquet.” Ginny threw her glass back in one fell swoop. Squinting, she set it back down. “He wasn’t lying.” 

Hermione hadn’t exactly partied in her time at school. She’d been to her fair share of quidditch after-parties, but she was usually tasked with babysitting. Making sure Seamus didn’t blow anyone else’s eyebrows off and that everyone’s drunken hexes stayed under control. She’d had the occasional drink after particularly exciting matches, but nothing crazy. Ron and Harry had picked up a whiskey habit during their year on the run, meaning Hermione had too. There wasn’t much to do in that tent other than read, freeze, drink, and argue. She much preferred drinking to fighting, although the whiskey never stopped the arguing- the locket made sure of that. 

The alcohol was still a shock to her system. She braced herself; obviously, she didn’t brace hard enough. She coughed as the liquor clawed its way down her throat. The sugar and ethanol stung in her nostrils. “That… wow,” 

“Another round?” Ginny asked. She was an amazon in her glittering heels. 

“I’m not looking to fall down the stairs.” 

Ginny booed, “Boring,” She glanced at herself in the mirror one last time. “Am I presentable?” 

“You look fit,” Hermione said simply. 

Ginny stuck her wand in her usual resting place behind her ear and smiled, “You don’t look too bad yourself, Granger. You’ve really outdone yourself.” 

“Fleur outdid herself. I was just there.” 

Ginny Weasley, much like her brothers, tended to lean into the dramatics when she was tipsy. Yet another similarity among the red hair and the freckles and the knack for quidditch. “She is the artist, and we are mere canvases.”

Hermione nodded. “Something like that.” 

Toddling and embarrassed, Hermione barely avoided slipping and breaking an ankle as they inched down the staircase. Whoever designed the human ankle, Hermione decided, must have been out of her mind. It was an architectural nightmare. At the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Weasley gasped. “Oh my girls,” she exclaimed. “When did you get so grown up?” 

“You look lovely, Molly.” 

“Oh, thank you, dear,” She patted Hermione’s cheek. “The boys are still upstairs doing Merlin knows what in Charlie’s room. They act like I don’t know. These walls are thin, and those boys are predictable.” 

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a wide-eyed glance. She didn’t want to think about what Mrs. Weasley might have picked up about her during her stays at the Burrow. She chose to push that thought to the fringes of her mind. 

Fleur came down the stairs next with enviable grace. Her blonde hair was pulled into a bun and secured with her wand. Her gown, with its swooping neckline, was in her typical Tiffany blue. 

They hadn’t been able to find a dress with sleeves in Fleur’s collection that would fit Hermione. Before, that wouldn’t have been an issue, but now Hermione was painfully aware of her bare arms. An alarm sounded in her head every time someone’s eyes flicked over the scar, even for a moment. **_Mudblood_ **. 

She was in good company, all things considered. Nearly each of the Weasleys carried scars from the war, some obvious others not. Harry had his fair share as well with his lightning bolt above his eye and _‘I must not tell lies’_ scrawled across his hand. It wasn’t the company of the Burrow that concerned her. It was the prying eyes and false sympathies of everyone else that might see her that she was dreading. 

Fleur kissed each of them on the cheek as she passed by. “The shoe’s fit?” She asked Hermione. 

“Yes, but I can hardly walk.” She admitted. 

“They take a while to get used to, but you look beautiful in them.” She said, her accent catching on the letter T. “You should be running in them in no time.” 

“She’s not joking about the running part. I’ve seen her clear a wall in those shoes. Twice.” Bill announced as he made his way down towards them. “Darling, Is it possible you get more gorgeous everyday? Because this is absurd.” He beamed. 

Fleur simply shook her head as he dramatically took her hand and kissed it. “Hello, Love.” She laughed.

More footsteps echoed through the house. Charlie must have finally turned loose his gaggle of brothers because they were all stampeding downward with footfalls heavied by alcohol and the rowdy, untamable attitude of a stag party. She nearly choked as she caught sight of Ron. _Did he always look like that?_ Since when did Ron Weasley own a suit? And since when did he look _like that?_ Tall and muscular and charming. She could see the muscles in his arms flex as he moved to button his jacket. Harry cracked a joke that everyone but Percy laughed at. 

She crouched, partially to fix the loose strap of her heel but more accurately to gather her wits and hide the blush that was crawling up her cheeks. Hermione had seen Ron nearly every day for seven years, and now she was blushing at the sight of him like some first year. No, her first-year self would have been ashamed that she was so interested in a boy that couldn’t decide if the feeling was mutual. 

The red of her cheeks dimmed to match the same pink of her ruffled dress when she finally stood back up. 

“Did Fleur put you two on stilts or something? George asked. Hermione was at his eye-level for once. It was unsettling being so tall. 

“I think you just shrank,” Ginny said. 

George’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible,” 

“This entire ceremony has actually been one big ruse to make you insecure about your height,” Ginny said, completely composed. “It took weeks of prep and commitment, but it’s all coming together now.” 

“Impossible,” Hermione couldn’t help but feel like they should have been another voice speaking with him. “I’ve grown half a centimeter in the past three years.” He boasted. 

Molly’s arm waved above their heads, doing what must have been eight headcounts of the crowd assembled in the kitchen. With the other hand planted firmly on her hip, it looked like she was about to take a group of children on a field trip. Considering their constant chattering and drunken instability, she was acting as their chaperone.

“Alright,” Arthur clapped his hands. “Is everyone ready?” He was met with a chorus of cheers that made Molly shake her head in maternal disappointment. He extended both his arms, “Hold tight, I don’t want anyone going missing or getting splinched- again.” His eyes fell to Ron. 

Apparition always made Hermione sick to her stomach, although she would never openly admit it. In her ranking of magical subjects, it resided right beside reading tea leaves and decoding natal charts. The entire process was miserable. There had to be some less exhaustive way to get around via magic that didn’t involve pulling apart and rearranging her cells. The only real alternative was the floo network. After all the work Fleur had put in, Hermione couldn’t risk covering herself in soot. 

For a moment, her vision went entirely black. Then, the nausea set in as she was ripped from weightlessness and forced back onto her feet. She grabbed onto Harry for support as the Ministry’s high columns and twinkling lights came into view. 

She looked around the new atrium in awe. The building they were standing in didn’t resemble the old Ministry in the slightest. The matte black tile had all been torn out and replaced with marble. The imposing sculptures had been removed. Twisting ivy climbed its way up the tall columns towards open windows. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure they were in the right place. 

Ron leaned over to her ear, his warm breath against her neck. “Weren’t we fugitives the last time we were here?” 

“I have Dittany in my bag if we have to make another escape.” She was mostly joking. _Mostly_. She still found herself taking inventory of the nearest exits, the passersby who might inflict the most damage. 

“Do you really?” 

“It saved you once,” 

His eyes softened, a well-worn smile cracking around his face. “Always prepared, aren’t you?”

She shifted the bag on her shoulder, beads catching on the fabric of her gown. “Overprepared, hopefully.” 

“You’re incredible.” He said. Something in his voice made her sincerely believe that fact. “You didn’t bring the tent with you, right?” 

“Of course not,” She had considered it. She’d probably considered it for too long before finally convincing herself that this trip to the Ministry would, in fact, be different. The world they were living in now wasn’t the same world they were living in a year ago. It wasn’t even the same world they were living in a month ago. Hermione had to remind herself of that as Ron continued to breathe down her neck, seemingly unaware of just how close he was. “Too bad I didn’t bring you any breath mints.”

Her comment didn’t seem to phase him. “Did you bring any snacks?” 

“To this catered event? No, I didn’t.” She sighed, shrugged off the bag in response to the pout on his face. “Here, I’m sure there’s a chocolate frog or something in there.” 

Ron’s forearm disappeared into the purple bag as he scavenged for food. His hair had been tamed by someone before they left the house. He was put together in a way she’d never seen before. “Well, here’s the jumper I’ve been looking for.” He said under his breath. He continued his search. “What’s this?” He asked, pulling Kinglsey’s Phoenix pin from the shadows of the bag. 


End file.
